Gideon's Warrior's

DEDICATION This book is dedicated to my loving mother and to all the English teachers that encouraged me to become a writer. And to all my brothers and sisters in the Christian Motorcycle Association. Winning souls for the Son. FORWARD Although this is a work of fiction, many of the things experienced by the characters have come from my personal life including astral travel, meeting demons, witches, and shape-shifting. The experience of Joseph in prison is my own testimony using circumstances that better fit an American Indian.

I have never experienced combat in the battlefield, but I have done battle with the forces of the spiritual world. I can say that the only way to stop demonic possession is to call upon the name of the Lord—Jesus the Christ. If you are having the same problems that Tom has with nightmares and guilt there is only one way to get healing, and that is through prayer. He said that he would never turn away someone who seeks him. May you find him now.

GIDEON’S WARRIORS  2008 A Novel by Douglas Mullis Blessed is he whose transgressions are forgiven Psalm 32:1

Forgive them Father for they know not what they do: Except these guys know exactly what they are doing. And what they are doing is the will of the Evil one. Draped in black leather, their bodies covered in cabalistic tats, they roam the kingdom of light in service to the Lord of Darkness.

Vultures in the distance reveal their trail of destruction, while my steel horse waits, patiently thumping out its heartbeat—potato-potato, waiting for its master to take up the reins once again and face eternity in the cause of Light. Throwing my leg over the saddle of my ’64 Panhead, I settle my six foot four inch frame and get ready for what lies ahead. Pulling mirrored shades down over pale blue eyes I drop the tranny into gear and pull out onto the black gash of macadam leading to either road kill or glory!

Feeling the road slipping under me I start to think back to where it all started and the fantastic journey that has brought me to this place. An ordinary childhood with loving parents who took me to church every Sunday, but who know nothing of the enemy or his nature. Sixteen years in the Marine Corps with two tours in Iraq taught me how to kill and I was very, very, good at it. 

“Gunny, front and center,” boomed out the voice of my LT. “You and your squad will take the front door. Use flash-bangs to get in and fer Christ’s sake try not to kill any non-com’s.”

“Non-combatants, yeah. The only non-com’s I’ve seen here are under the age of two LT.” Too often that was true, you could not be sure who the bad guys were since few wore uniforms and even kids as young as ten were used as mobile I.E.D.’s (Improvised Explosive Device). ‘Kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out’, had become my motto. I was on my second tour and determined to go home not only alive, but in one piece. I had

been the hometown hero and looked the part: tall, lean, blond, with penetrating blue eyes, square jaw, and a voice that was somehow resonant with authority.

Even though I was scared most of time throughout my first tour when I found I was going to have to make a second, something in me died. I made up my mind that, no matter what, Gunny Sergeant Tom Harper was not coming home in a Hefty bag.

As we came to the courtyard door I had my point man, Cpl. Armstrong, put a small C-4 charge on it. “Fire in the hole,” he shouted and there was a bang followed by the rest of us throwing flash-bangs to disorient anyone inside. I directed two of my men to the right, two to the left, and Cpl. Armstrong and I went up the center, weapons ready.

I heard the distinctive sound of an R.P.G. (Rocket Propelled Grenade) and dived for cover behind a fountain in the central garden. It went off about three meters behind me, throwing Cpl. Armstrong up and over me like a child’s broken toy. I knew right away he was dead and so were the rest of us unless we moved fast. As the smoke cleared the AK-47’s started their deadly chatter from what seemed like every opening in the house, sending gravel flying in little explosions everywhere and making that distinctive hypersonic crack as they flew past my head.

Two more of my men went down with cry’s of “Medic” and “Sarge, I’m hit.” We were taking too much fire so I screamed at my radioman to call in re-enforcements, but he was hit too.

I threw two grenades at the house where we were taking the most fire and my last squad man, a private by the name of Jack Kellogg, tossed a smoke grenade as well. I was up and moving before the dirt hit the ground, headed for the double windows on the right side of the front door, and calling for Jack to follow.

With both of us squatting under the window I tossed in my last grenade. After the blast we both went in guns blazing. There was blood and body parts every where and the floor so wet I slid half-way cross the room before coming up against a pile of bloody rags which was all that was left of what had been a human being only seconds before.

With Pvt. Kellogg in tow we started sweeping the rest of the house killing anything that moved or looked like it still could. I did not care whether they were noncom’s or not by that point. My people, four good men, were dead or wounded and somebody was going to pay!

On the upper floor I sprayed the final room with fire and with Kellogg following close behind the world, as I knew it, changed forever.

Something seemed to hit me all over like a giant hammer and at once I felt like I was being squeezed down to the size of a grape; then just as suddenly expanded out to infinity—then nothing. Not just nothing, but NO-THING: Then a voice, gentle and kind, a voice I seemed to know said, “I have need of you Tom Harper.”

I don’t know why, but memories of sitting in church looking at pictures of Jesus suddenly came back to me and I knew…I knew. “Yes Lord,” I said, “I am here.”

Dust and smoke choked the air of the upper room where I lay on my back surrounded by the bodies of a dozen men. All were dressed strangely for the area. Tight black outfits covering them from head to toe, like Ninja warriors, and armed with weapons not usually found in Iraq: Tech 9’s, Mac’s and assorted hand guns.

I sat up looking for Kellogg who was back out in the hallway unconscious. I

looked myself over and saw no wounds: no wounds on the men around me either. My ears were ringing and I felt a warm trickle of blood coming from my nose as I struggled to my feet. I glanced out the window and saw a man on a rooftop across the street aiming an R.P.G. my way. With no time to think I jumped up, threw Kellogg over my shoulder, and plunged down the stairs with Hell following.

There were three or four bad guys at the bottom of the staircase, but I was moving so fast and screaming bloody murder, that they must have thought I was a ‘djin’. I went through them like a bowling ball hitting a strike and kept right on going out into the street all the way back to our lines. I was told I collapsed there suffering wounds to my back from the R.P.G. and a concussion. 

CHAPTER TWO

After two weeks in hospital I was awarded a Silver Star for meritorious bravery under fire and sent back home with an Honorable Discharge to join the ranks of the unemployed. During my recovery though I kept remembering that dream of Jesus speaking to me and it left me wondering if it was all real or not. What did he mean by “I have need of you?” What could He possibly need me for? I sure wasn’t no Jesus freak and wasn’t trying to live a Christian life.

There was a feeling though that I just could not get away from, a sort of empty gnawing in my spirit that just would not go away. For now though I was free and had about twenty K in my pocket so I was thinking…ROAD TRIP! I had always wanted to see some of the U.S. and this seemed like a good time to do it. I could look for a job later and frankly, I still had some demons I needed to shake off. I couldn’t think of a better way than on my old ’64 Panhead with the breeze in my face and the open road in front of me. I had done a lot of work on it with my dad before I went into the Corps. With bobbed fenders, six inch over front end, Mustang tank, high bars, solo saddle with a sissy pad, and painted in Midnight Blue she was a real beauty.

Home was in Jonestown, Texas where everyone was sad to see me leave again so shortly after returning, especially my mom. My dad seemed to understand though maybe because he was a vet from the Nam and understood what I was going through. I had been home about a week and was working on the bike out in the barn when he walked in with a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses. I had not known my dad to drink much and was a little surprised to see him pour us both a good stiff three fingers of the golden liquid.

We sat sipping the Tennessee firewater and looking over the rusted primary chain on the bike, but I could tell that something was on his mind. I decided to wait knowing that he would tell me when he was ready. After two more glasses of tongue lube he finally looked at me and asked, “Are you ready to talk about it son?”

I just looked at him with my best little-boy-lost look and said, “Talk about what dad?”

“About the dreams son,” he said. “The ones that wake you up in the middle of the night. Those dreams,” he said with that thousand-yard look in his eyes.

It was a look I had seen before when I was a kid and the Nam was still coming out of his pores like some deadly poison.

“I’m not sure dad,” I said suddenly feeling very small. “I’m not sure I can. Some things happened over there, terrible things, and I just don’t know if I can talk about it yet.

Maybe never dad, I just don’t know.”

The bottle was about empty and there were tears in his eye’s that spoke volumes to me about his own pain, a pain I knew was there, but we had never talked about.

“Son,” he said drawing in a deep breath, “I carried my pain from the Nam like my own personal cross for decades after coming home until it almost ruined my marriage and destroyed my spirit.” He took another sip of J.D. and lapsed into silence for a while.

Not knowing what to say, but remembering those days, I just waited.

“Son we all do terrible things in war. We are called upon to participate in an unGodly act of inhumanity while people still expect us to act in a civilized way. The fact is, war is kill or be killed, no mercy, no quarter. Kill that other S.O.B. first so you can come home. It’s that simple for those who have been there and impossible to explain to those who sat at home watching it on the five o’clock funnies.”

A long speech for my dad, but I could see he was working his way up to telling me something that, at least to him, was very personal and very painful.

“Son, I killed your uncle Bob.” Just like that; then he looked me in the eyes, and I saw in those windows to the soul the pain that had lain hidden there for so many years. 

CHAPTER 3

“We were on a mission in Cambodia that did not exist. We weren’t supposed to be there you know, a part of Nixon’s private war.

“Bob had been wounded by a pungee trap, one of those little holes you step into and boards with nails close on both sides of your foot. It was bad, real bad, because we could not call for help and we could not afford to be caught. We knew the danger going in, but somehow in that moment it all took on a reality that had only been abstract up to that point.

“We gave him some morphine and tried to keep him quiet, but the nails had gone right into the bone and he was in terrible pain.” Dad got up then obviously feeling agitated and walked around a bit. “Charlie was real close. We were there to call in B-52 bombing runs on the HO Chi Min trail you know.

“At one point a V.C. stopped to take a leak and got my boots wet; that’s how close they were. Bob was crying from the pain and we had no more morphine, nothing to help him. We all knew that we were going to die if Bob gave us away. We would be tortured in some camp until we were dead or the war was over. The only other choice was unthinkable.

“We had been working our way out carrying Bob. Traveling by night, resting by day, dodging patrols, and praying for a miracle.” Again he was silent for a while as the cobwebs so recently spun over the old wound were brushed away leaving it as raw as the day it was made.

“Miracles were in short supply in those days and we were getting desperate.

Bob’s wounds were festering and the smell of death was on him. I knew that gangrene would kill him soon if we did not get him to hospital, but were still in Charlie’s backyard and that was a world away.

“Our extraction point was still about five klick’s away when we walked right into a V.C. patrol of about thirty men. They did the unthinkable and started making camp with us right in the middle of them.”

Again, a long silence full of pent up emotion passed before he could go on. “I was holding Bob, trying to keep him quiet, but the fever from the infection, and the pain, were just too much for him. He started making these little mewling sounds and trembling from chills. I knew that if I could not keep him still and quiet we were going to be in a world of hurt. Thirty against five just ain't good odds son. So I put my hand over his mouth and held him tight as I could, but he was becoming disoriented and fighting me.

“I tried to knock him out with the butt of my pistol, but I was so scared that I must have hit him to hard. I did not notice right away, so relieved that he was quiet now, but he was not breathing.”

My dad drained the last of his whiskey with tears streaming down his cheeks and for several minutes I watched as his body was wracked with deep sobs. I could only watch, because I was crying too, like a five year old who has been caught breaking his mom’s favorite china.

“I knew he was dead son and I was also aware that I had killed him. I know that I

did what I had to do to survive, but that does not make it any easier. We slipped out during the night with the sound of bombs going off to cover our escape. After two more days in the bush we made our way to the L.Z. (Landing Zone) and home.”

He paused again to take another drink, but finding the bottle empty, he threw it in the corner and just seemed to disappear inside himself. I grabbed him tight as I could and that night we joined a fraternity as old as man himself: THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE WARRIOR. I slept that night better than I had in a long time. The faces of the women and children in that little room were still there, but no longer seemed to be accusing me. I still felt I owed them something, there was still a debt of guilt, but I did not feel I was bearing all that weight by myself anymore. I was not alone or unique in any way. I was in the brotherhood and we all bore these same feelings. I was not free yet, but no longer suffered as much as I had.



CHAPTER 4

Off the road just ahead is a little bar calling itself the Last Chance Bar and Grill.

In the parking lot are about a dozen bikes and half a dozen or so cars and pickups. The cages look local, but the bikes are all sporting out-of-state plates and the sort of mods that say outlaw.

Inside, the place is like hundreds of other little waterholes: poor lighting, stench of stale beer and unwashed bodies, and a bartender with big boobs and a cute smile.

Citizens were on the left and bikers on the right, where the pool table was. There were also a half dozen ol’ ladies at the bar.

I stepped up and ordered a beer from the attractive bartender. She put my brew on the bar top and said, “You best watch your back Honey, this is a rough looking crew.”

I had to agree. They were wearing Pagan Colors and bulges here and there spoke of concealed weapons. I took my beer and moved to an open table where I had the wall to my back, citizens to my left, and outlaws to the front.

They didn’t seem to be interested in me; I was just another Lone Wolf. I was looking at the pictures over the bar showing the place and its patrons in a better time, when a couple of the bikers started beefing over the pool table. Looking over at them I had the sudden impression of having seen them somewhere before. It was that Deja-vu thing again, but this time it was a flashback to a little room and a dozen men in black.

They suddenly got up at the command of one greasy looking individual and—this is where it got really freaky—he looked at me as he was leaving and gave me a wink, as though we shared some secret. Then the rest caught up slapping each other around and the spell was broken.

I finished my beer and went out to my bike. They were gone by then, but on my bike hanging from the handlebar was something that sent a chill right through my soul. A black silk hood with eyeholes cut in it, just like the men were wearing in a little room, in a place far away, and a lifetime ago.

Down the road a few miles, I came to a little town and stopped for gas. After filling the tank, I asked the gap-toothed old man running the place about food and lodging in the area.

“Only’st place close is the Cactus Inn about three miles down the road. Don’t knows as ya might be partial to it though,” he said in a cryptic manner.

I packed my beer and chips in my saddlebags and headed out for this oasis-in-thedesert. The old man was right, the place made the word ‘Roach Motel’ come to mind as soon as I pulled up.

It had probably been built back in the early 60’s when the highway was new and was now reduced to a few working units just this side of condemned. The A.C. in the office sounded like it needed a complete re-build about ten years ago, but still looked better that the proprietor sitting behind the stained and often repainted counter.

She looked like something out of an old time sideshow carnival. She was about five-six and had to mass at least two hundred kilo’s, with porcine eyes that sized me up like a pork-chop. They were like two black holes in a bottomless pit and if you weren’t careful they drew you in to a place you did not want to go. The flower print muumuu hung on her sweating body like a flag in a dead calm. I was tired though and decided to go ahead and get a room.

“What can I do for ya handsome?” squeaked out of a mouth that looked like a red gash cut into a pink marble slab.

“A room for the night with A.C. that won’t leave me with permanent hearing damage, if ya got it,” I said.

“Why shore honey,” dripped out of her mouth. “Number four has good A.C. and a clean bath. Twenty dollars for the night and just let me know if you want anything else.

Okay?” One of those black pits winked at me in a truly terrifying way.

“No thanks,” I answered, “just the room. It’s been a long day.”

“Okay sweetie, “ she said, “ You know you sound just like Sam Elliot?”

“Who?” I said, even though I had been told this before. I did not wish to encourage her.

“Sam Elliot, the actor,” she went on, “he does a lot of westerns.”

“Sorry,” I said backing out the door, “I’ve been out of the country for a long time.

Marine Corps you know.”

I headed out the door into the blast-furnace heat of a July Nevada evening and turned down the drive to the row of rooms. Room four looked like all the rest—about as

inviting as a dentist chair in Tijuana. A bed, a side table with lamp, and a closet that doubled as shower and toilet. There was a small chair next to the window unit that was laboring to keep the room just under the boiling point of lead.

I tossed my gear on the bed and headed for the shower, popping open a beer on the way. Plenty of rust stains and calcium deposits everywhere, but the water was cool as it rained over my body washing away the road grime and sweat of the day’s ride.

By the time I finished the shower, the room had cooled down some. Taking a seat next to the bed, I found a Gideon’s Bible on the table. I picked it up and started thumbing through it. A small tract fell out into my lap showing Jesus on a motorcycle and saying, “Jesus would have been a biker.” Funny I thought and tossed it on the bed without opening it or the Bible. Instead, I went out into the courtyard and had a look around.

In the distance behind the motel, something caught my attention. A man dressed in black was looking at me. I had a sudden feeling of panic as my warrior instincts were aroused. While I watched, he raised his hands up, bringing what looked like an R.P.G. to his shoulder. I looked around quickly for some cover, looked back, and he was gone.

I stood there trembling; going back again to that little room in Iraq, but the strident voice of the innkeeper suddenly broke the spell.

“Looking for something sweet thing?” in a voice that nearly gave me a cavity.

“Thought I saw something,” was my lame response. I decided it had been a mirage and changed the subject, “You know of somewhere around here where I can find a cold beer and a good steak?”

“Jim’s down the street,” she said, raising up an arm that could have fed the Donner Party for a week and pointing out the direction. “They got good food, cold beer, and live music tonight.”

“Thanks, I’ll check it out,” I said and headed back to my room before my trembling legs gave way under me. I sat down trying to convince myself that I had seen nothing, but somehow, I knew what I had seen was real; not an illusion.

Gideon was back in its place on the table with the tract neatly on top. I stepped into the bath and looked at the window, but it was way to small for anyone but a two year old to get through. There was no way anyone could have gotten in that room and out again without me seeing them—but there it was where I had not left it.

I had a sudden feeling of panic growing in me because this was getting too strange. I was beginning to doubt my own sanity. I turned for the door to get out but…I am in that room again. The bodies are all around me, except this time there is someone new: an old man with long white hair, piercing yellow eyes, and a real Mona Lisa smile.

There seemed to radiate from him a sense of peace that was as palpable as it was invisible. He spoke two words to me, “GET OUT!” I was back in the motel room alone when a sound from outside awakened a distant memory—R.P.G.!

I got out grabbing my jacket and bags. I ran straight across the parking lot into the room across from me and as I hit the door the pressure wave from the exploding round caught me and that, as well as my momentum, took me through the door and head long into the far wall.

I bounced off and fell onto the bed much to the surprise of the local mayor and his wife-for-the-night. I made a hasty apology and backed out the broken door to see unit four was no longer there: Or units three and five for that matter.

My first thought was to get away since R.P.G.’s are not something I am used to having fired at me in small-town U.S.A. I jumped on my bike and lit off into the gathering darkness, leaving a very upset motel operator screaming at me unintelligibly and shaking a large chicken drumstick at me as pieces of meat flew out of her mouth.

On impulse, I turned onto a dirt road, and headed out into the desert hoping to find a place of refuge where I could just sit down and figure out what was going on. Too many things were happening to me that could not be explained. Books don’t move themselves or people appear out of nowhere. Was it P.T.S.D. (Post Traumatic System Disorder)? Or was it that I was slipping over the edge into madness? I had to find some answers and find them fast. Who wanted me dead? Was it terrorists chasing me for something I did back in Iraq? That might be a good place to start since I had done some pretty bad things back there.

For now though I needed a safe place to hide and the open desert seemed like the perfect place. I drove until the dirt road became two ruts and then finally just faint wagon tracks.

I was in an area of canyons and mesas so far from city lights that I suddenly felt as though I was the last person on earth. The only thing I saw to remind me that I was not alone was the slowly moving red and green navigation lights of an airplane moving across the open celestial bowel above me.

I pulled the bike into the time worn walls of an old Indian pueblo. It was a good spot with cliff walls on three sides and an uphill approach that was open for at least a klick. Nobody was going to sneak up on me here even if they were on foot. I broke out a blanket from my bags and settled in for the night hoping I would stay warm enough without a fire.

After a few minutes the insects took up their song again, punctuated by the eerie yips of coyotes. Except for the sounds, it was a lot like Iraq.

Several times I nodded off only to come awake gun in hand as insurgents were charging me. Each time it was so real it left my heart pounding and the urge to run so strong that it took an enormous amount of self-discipline to remain still and quiet. I held onto the thought that I was in America and it was just my imagination working overtime.

Somewhere around midnight, I finally gave in to a deep, sound sleep, brought on by exhaustion from the day’s stress.



.

CHAPTER 5

“Sergeant Tom Harper. Report!”

The words rang in my ears and I snapped to attention looking for the source of the command. I hit my head on the low ceiling of what looked like a Kiva, a circular underground room used by Indians for ceremonial occasions, although I was not aware of how I knew this.

There was a fire burning in its place on the floor with smoke dancing its way out through a hole in the roof and a white haired old man sitting across the fire from me. The smoke was burning my eyes and I could feel a knot rising on the crown of my head as the old man burst into laughter.

“You again!” I said. “What’s going on? Who are you?”

I reached for my pistol only to discover that it was not in my shoulder rig, in fact, I was not even wearing the same clothes anymore. I was dressed in black leather from neck to foot. Leather jeans over heavy black boots and a leather shirt as well. I felt as though I had been turned into another person. I had never really liked the outlaw look and had stayed away from it as much as possible.

“Sit down,” he said gently, but with that tone of command that causes a person to obey without thinking. “There is much you will need to learn and little time to teach you.

You have answered His call and you must now decide.”

“Hold up there old thing,” I shot back. “Whose call?”

“The one who said, ‘I have need of you’.”

“But that was just a dream. I don’t believe in Jesus or all that religious crap,” I shot back angrily.



I came awake with a coyote not two inches from my nose. His yellow canine eyes boring into mine imparted a feeling of intelligence. Then, with a snort, he tuned and trotted off into the desert night leaving me to wonder about all the Indian legends I had heard as a kid about coyotes being messengers; supernatural creatures.

Those eyes haunted me as I fell back to sleep. Was it just a dream or coincidence?

The way the old man had laughed reminded me of the coyote’s yipping. ‘Course that would be crazy, it really would be time to check into the Prozac Palace.

A series of clacking noises woke me up. A large Crow was looking at me from the Adobe wall and tapping his beak against the wall like some kind of Morse code. It could have been, but never having learned Morse code, it was just so much noise.

“Piss off,” I mumbled and tossed a rock at him. In turn, he lifted off leaving me a gift on my jacket. Cursing his entire species, as well as his Creator, I got out some T.P. and wiped my jacket clean.

My warrior instincts kicked in at that moment, with the hairs of my neck standing up. I feinted to my right, then jumped over the adobe wall to my left as a round kicked up the rocks where I had been. I stayed down listening for the shot so I could place the sniper, but he must have been using a suppressor because I heard nothing.

To make things worse, all I had was a handgun with limited range and no idea where the shooter was. All I could do was sit tight and hope he would move in and maybe, make a mistake. With walls on three sides my only option was to run toward him and that would be suicide. At least I would be in the shade until noon and he would bake in the sun.

After a while I heard a Jeep laboring its way up the basin toward me and risked a peek over the wall to see who was coming. I saw a generous cloud of blond hair behind the windshield, but the vehicle was still about a hundred meters away. Too far to see who was driving and, not wanting to draw fire, I pulled my head back down behind the wall to wait.

When the Jeep came to a stop, I leveled my pistol over the wall and ordered the driver to freeze. She, just as politely, told me to drop my gun. She was standing to the left of me and pointing her rifle at me. There was no one in the Jeep, so I turned my head slowly to look at the Amazon who had taken Gunny Sergeant Tom Harper prisoner.

She was about five-eight, with honey blond hair over a face that, no doubt, had broken a thousand hearts. Green eyes that spoke to my heart like a wildfire in dry California brush, and a body that would grow wood in the Petrified Forest.

“Were you the one that shot at me?” I demanded.

“No,” she said, “but if I wanted you dead you would be, so drop the pistol and put your hands on your head.”

I had been so preoccupied by the bumper bullets under her blouse, that I hadn’t noticed the badge there that said U.S. Department of National Parks on it.

“Yes Ma’am,” I said, “ I didn’t mean any harm. I didn’t know I was in a restricted area.”

“That Pueblo you’re squatting in is protected under park law,” she said. “You better have a real good reason for being there.”

I knew I would have to think quick, because there was no way she would believe

the truth. Or worse, I would be thrown into some lockup until they figured out who blew up the Cactus Inn and why.

I was saved from this problem by the sight of a man on top of the mesa about three hundred meters away. It was the glint of a scope that caught my eye and I dropped down to my knees behind the wall and hoped he wasn’t using a .50 caliber that would go clean through the wall, and me.

“Lady,” I said. “There is a man with a scoped rifle on that mesa back there and he is aiming at us, so you better take cover. He took a shot at me about an hour ago and he’s getting ready to shoot again.”

“That’s a good one stranger, but I happen to know that you would need a ‘copter to get on that mesa. Besides, I would have heard the shot.”

“He’s using a silencer,” I said.

She was about to make some reply, when the cliff wall exploded just above her head and sent her scrambling for cover. Unfortunately, she was startled, and fired her rifle putting a bullet across the right side of my neck. It was not a serious wound, but it did hurt like being slapped with an old fashioned Hickory stick.

She jumped down beside me and, seeing me bleeding, she started freaking.

“This is not happening,” she shouted. “Who’s shooting at me?”

I just looked up and pointed out my neck to her indicating that I could not answer.

“I got a first aid kit in the Jeep,” she said and started to go for it. I grabbed her, pulled her down, and got on top of her to shield her, as well as keep her still.

“Don’t move,” I growled into her ear in my best sergeant voice. “He can’t get us here behind the wall. Let me have your rifle and I will try to spot him. Maybe I can get him. Gunny Sergeant Tom Harper, Marine Corps, just back from Iraq,” as though that was all that needed to be said.

“You spot, I’ll shoot,” she said. “I’m the law here.”

“Okay,” I answered, “I seem to be his real target anyway.”

I moved to a new position and quickly had a look along the ridge. I saw him looking back at me and then he turned with a wave of his hand and disappeared.

“Show’s over,” I remarked and sat down, back to the wall. “I could use that first aid kit now if you don’t mind.”

“Where did he go? Did you see him?” she asked. “And what do you mean you’re the real target? Did you have something to do with that incident at the Cactus Inn last night?”

She asked all these questions rapid fire without letting me answer while still searching the ridge for any sign of the shooter. In answer, I pointed at my bloody throat

once more.

“Oh yeah,” she said, picked up my .45 Colt Auto, and turned to go to her Jeep throwing in, “Just don’t move till I get back. Okay?”

I could not help but enjoy the view as she walked away. To say it was nice, was to say that the Golden Gate Bridge is just ‘okay’. With some effort I turned my attention back to the mesa ridge looking for a ‘chopper or sounds that would give some clue to the shooters position when I heard her say, “Radio’s out. Looks like he put a bullet in it before leaving. Any idea who he is or why he’s trying to kill you?”

“No I don’t.” I said, feeling a bit better as she knelt down to clean the wound.

“Who are you?”

For a moment she just looked at me and then went back to work on my neck.

“Dakota Walsh, park ranger,” she answered finally.

“Pretty name for a pretty woman,” I said, which got me a shot of antiseptic on my neck that burned like cheap whiskey.

“Sit still soldier,” she grunted. “You ain’t hurt bad, I’ve done worse shaving my legs,” which at least gave something else to think about.

“I can tell you this much, he missed on purpose. Only an armature would miss two easy shots like that.” I went silent then, thinking back over the previous day and everything that had happened. There was something that was working at the back of my mind; worrying me like a Chihuahua trying to have his way with a Great Dane—It was just out of reach.

“That may be so, but it ain’t gonna stop me from tracking him down and slamming the cage door on him.” There was a look of fire in those jade eyes now and I honestly felt sorry for the poor jerk that had held us pinned down for the past hour.

“You still ain’t said why you were out here last night,” she said.

“The same guy shooting at us fired an R.P.G. at me back there at the Cactus Inn and I just wanted to find someplace safe for the night, ya know?” I felt I could trust this woman as she turned back to finish bandaging my wound and I saw around her neck a beautiful copper and turquoise cross nestled in between her ample breasts.

“I drove blind, just going as far into the desert as I could, hoping no one would be able to follow me.” I told her about what had happened the day before, the bikers, the nut job that kept following me around shooting at me, the attack at the motel, but not the dreams; not yet. I even told her about the incident in Iraq in the upper room.

While I was talking, we got into the Jeep and started driving around the mesa to look for signs of the shooter, but as I had told her, we found nothing. This guy was a pro.

There were a few footprints that ended at the cliffs edge and nothing else—no brass, cigarette butts, nothing.

By the time we made it back to the bike, it was well past noon and we were both

getting hungry.

“I ain’t gonna arrest you,” she said. “But I do want you to come into town with me. There is someone I think you should meet.”

“Okay but let’s get something to eat first, I’m starved,” I said without trying to whine too much.

“Sure,” she said. “We’ll stop at Mom’s. Great food and nice people.”



.

CHAPTER 6

Mom’s was a bright spot next to the highway with a large paved parking lot and a huge homemade pie on the roof. One of those old roadside attraction kind of places that were popular in the 60’s, with souvenirs and cheap jewelry, most of which came from China nowadays. There was lot of Indian stuff too and some of it looked pretty good.

Inside, past the counters in the cool rear, were the tables and booths of the restaurant.

We stepped up to the counter and were greeted by ‘Mom’ in a loud booming voice.

“Hey Dakota, long time no see.”

‘Mom’ was six feet four inches tall and at least one hundred twenty kilo’s, with black hair in braids to his waist in the traditional Sioux style. Behind his greasy apron, I saw that he also wore a Shamans charm, which was ornately worked and looked very old.

“Hey Jason, see your still in business. Health Department hasn’t caught you serving road kill again have they?”

“Hey, it was only that one time and nobody would have known if the license plate hadn’t left numbers on the meat,” he said in a mock tone of hurt. “Don’t be poisoning new customers on me Chica,” he said looking at me. “ Looks like you caught a big one.

You wanna feed him or skin him?”

“Oh, feed him I guess. Then I will decide what to do with him.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said trying to look suitable hurt. “Tom Harper from Texas, glad to meet ya.”

Jason leaned over the counter to shake my extended hand and I saw the Corps tat on his arm.

“Semper Fi,” I said.

“Semper Fi,” he returned. His handshake was firm, his black eyes clear above high cheekbones. I felt that this was a man I could walk into Hell with, kick ass, take names, and make even Satan himself run for his momma. I would soon find out how prophetic those words really were.

After a great meal of chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, fried okra, and corn on the cob, I set my mind on dessert, as well as whether I should talk about my dreams with Dakota and Jason.

The roar of a dozen Harleys pulling into the parking lot and lining up in front of the restaurant interrupted us. I recognized them right off as the same bunch I had seen at the Last Chance Bar and Grill two days before. Jason heard them too and came out from the kitchen to have a look. Glancing at me he asked, “Friends of yours?”

“Saw them two days ago, but they are no friends of mine. Pagans from their colors and hardcore. Well armed from what I saw too.”

The group paraded in; twelve men and six women. Their leader looked around as the others spread out looking at the souvenirs and came toward us in the dining room. He was about five-eight with long brown hair tied back with a tube and a red bandana wrapped around his forehead.

Taking off wrap-around shades revealed gray eyes that had a feral look to them, over solid cheekbones and dark skin. He was solid under his open vest, no shirt, and no gun that I could see, but that could not be said for the others in the gang. Their women

were often used to hide weapons in their purses and clothing and they usually stayed close to the men for that reason.

Stepping up to the leader Jason said, “You folks are welcome to eat, but you gonna have to wear a shirt.” He pointed out the sign taped to the register that bore the old refrain: NO SHIRT—NO SHOES—NO SERVICE. For a moment time seemed to stand still as these two forces of nature faced each other. Then one of his gang stepped up and said, “What’s up Handlebar?” Which was apparently a reference to his greased up mustache.

“Nothin’ bro, just gonna see if we can get some food to go. That be alright with you Tonto?”

For a moment I thought Jason was going to go off, but he just smiled and said, “That’ll be fine. Hamburgers and fries for all of you?”

“That’ll be fine Tonto,” laughed Handlebar as though he had said something really funny. Before stepping away his eyes shifted to mine and I had the feeling that evil had found a home behind his smile.

He turned away to rejoin his friends and said, “Pay the man Maggott.”

Dakota looked at me and whispered, “Get your hand away from the gun, too many people in here.”

I whispered back, “It’s his play, but your right. Not here, not now. Let’s hope he knows that. The way he looks at me though, it’s like he knows me and has some kind of score to settle.”

“You sure you never met him?” she asked.

“I would remember those eyes, believe me.”

Jason returned to the kitchen to fill their order and they went back to the front looking for beer and chips. One of the ol’ ladies separated herself from the others and headed for the restroom behind us. She gave Dakota a look as she passed and a moment later, she excused herself and headed for the john too.

Inside, the first thing she noticed was how frail and scared this girl looked.

Somehow, she just wasn’t the one-percenter type. She was five-six and about fifty-two kilo’s, with mousy brown hair, porcelain features, small breasts, and a nice figure.

“They are after your friend,” she started. “They are gonna kill him if they get the chance.”

“Any idea why? He says he’s never seen you people before.”

“Got something to do with a gun deal that was supposed to go down in Iraq.

Don’t know anything else ‘cept that, if you wanna keep your man alive you better get him outta here.”

With that said, she walked out and went back to the front to join the others.

Dakota came back to her seat, relayed the cryptic message to me, and suggested we take off through the back door of the kitchen rather than risk a shootout. I had been watching them and had noticed that there was always at least one of them watching me.

“No way darlin’,” I said. “Too many eyes on me. Does Jason have a weapon?”

“Yes, a shotgun behind the counter. What you got in mind?”

“Go tell him to put it on the counter when he brings out the order. Let’em see yours as well. I will put mine on the table here. You stand over there at the corner of the counter where you can cover the others and have cover for yourself. If he’s smart he won’t try anything knowing we have a good field of fire on him.”

“Okay,” she said and went into the kitchen. She came out a few minutes later, helping to carry the orders and taking up her position as planned. As Handlebar came over to get the order, he held one of the ol’ ladies close to him—her bag easily within reach of his right hand.

I opened my jacket on the left side revealing my service .45 while Jason reached under the counter to place his old double barrel Greener on the bar. Handlebar’s eyes fastened onto the ten gauge and I saw just a glint of fearful respect in his eyes.

Jason remarked, “Really need to do something about that coyote that’s been raiding the trash cans out back. Anything else ya’ll might be needing?” he asked. “If not, come back anytime.”

With a growing smile that said ‘next time,’ he began to collect his order, moving slowly as he took us all in. Picking up the last bag, he shot me a glance and, this time, I winked at him.

As they were pulling out of the parking lot I took note of the leaders tag number and watched them until they were out of sight. Jason, Dakota, and I then took a seat in a booth and heaved a communal sigh of relief. I passed the tag number on to Dakota and said, “See what you can get from California D.M.V. on this guy. A name and picture if you can.”

“Will do, meantime you need to find some place safe to stay.”

“You are welcome to stay at my place out on the reservation,” said Jason. “No way they can sneak up on us out there man.”

“Thanks Jason, but I don’t want to put you or your people in harm’s way.”

“It’s them what will be in harm’s way Tom. Nobody hunts on my land unless they have permission.”

“Okay, sounds good, and to be truthful, I need some rest. I have been having some really intense dreams lately. Very weird stuff.”

“Well, we can talk about that too,” said Jason. “Dreams are something we Indians know about.”

“Follow me Tom and I will take you out to Jason’s place. You’ll like it out there.

It’s very peaceful with lots of good people and open sky.”

“Okay, let’s go,” I said. “Just let me fill my tank first.”



CHAPTER 7

The road out to Jason’s was just graded dirt, complete with potholes that pounded my kidney’s to pat′e after only a couple of miles and the dust kicked up from Dakota’s Jeep was so bad that I had to drop back a hundred meters just so me and the bike could keep breathing. The land was as dry as a politician’s promises and as barren as a Nun’s womb. Except for the occasional Saguaro cactus, sagebrush, piñon pine, and a few Joshua trees, there was not much to break up the monotony.

Lizards and Roadrunners were the only signs of life other than the ubiquitous Turkey Buzzard patiently waiting out the cycle of life, hoping to get lucky, as we blazed a trail through the heat-shimmer of late afternoon.

The occasional rotting remains of traditional Indian Hogans, abandoned for more modern homes, could be seen at the side of the road, empty of life, but simple and elegant in their design.

We finally rolled into Jason’s homestead heralded by dozens of mongrel dogs and boys dressed in jeans and T-shirts. There were the usual abandoned cars and appliances lining the side of the road and parked in back yards behind broken fences. It may have looked like no one was about, but the occasional glint of light on optic glass put a lie to that statement. People had been watching us by our dust trail for the last twenty minutes.

No way was anyone going to sneak up on these folks.

We pulled in amidst the yips of dogs and the excited cries of children to park in front of a rather simple looking modern three bedroom ranch house that you could find in any suburb in Middle America. It was cleaner than most of the other places and painted yellow, with purple trim, to keep away evil spirits, as Dakota informed me a little later.

There were the usual front lawn decorations for the area: bicycles, toy trucks, a few cactus plants, and a grass carpet with large brown holes worn in it.

In the doorway stood a pudgy little girl of about eight and behind her a woman who filled the entire door. She was almost as big as the woman at the Cactus Inn, but she had a light in her eyes that seemed to spread out and across everything in her sight. I could feel her joy-de-vive from where I stood and I knew that Jason was truly blessed.

As I cut the motor and dropped the side stand I was engulfed by barking dogs and squealing children all gathering around to look at the stranger Dakota had brought and his Iron Horse. I got the impression that they did not get many guests here, except for the occasional government bureaucrat who probably wasn’t welcome anyway, and there is something about a motorcycle that draws kids like a sale on shoes will draw women to a store.

Dakota got out of the Jeep and started toward the big woman in the house with a shout of, “Eh-Yat-Tah-Hey Helen.”

“Eh-Yat-Tah-Hey Dakota,” she called back in return. Helen wore traditional Navajo clothing, along with a lot of silver and turquoise jewelry that was nicely offset by her nutty-brown skin. She had a wonderful smile that said you were truly welcome in her home. She turned her gaze on me as I approached and spoke aside to Dakota, “Don’t tell me you have finally found a man Dakota?”

“It’s not like that Helen, though I did find him in Coyote Canyon.”

“Yes, Jason called to let me know you were bringing him here. You must come in and tell me everything that happened. There was something Jason said to Samuel that sent everyone on alert. Is it bad?”

“Maybe, maybe nothing. Someone did shoot at us this morning in the canyon and then some outlaw bikers at the restaurant were acting like bad-asses. Might have something to do with Tom here. Anyway, you know Jason, always a sucker to help a fellow Marine.”

Dakota was minimizing the whole thing to keep Helen from worrying, but the way she was holding herself betrayed her words. I pulled myself away from the kids and walked up to meet my hostess.

“Hi, my name’s Tom Harper,” I said extending my hand to her. She took it with both hands, as though she too were a veteran.

“Blessings on you Tom Harper, welcome to the Hogan of Jason Longbow. I am his wife Helen Walks Far. Please come in where it is cooler and have a seat.”

Inside, the house was tastefully furnished with throw rugs on the hardwood floor and native tapestries on the walls. Candles seemed to be everywhere, but not lit yet. A

large screen TV stood to one side decorated with pictures of Helen, Jason, the kids, and Jesus. In fact, Jesus seemed to be everywhere. There was not a wall that did not have his picture, a cross, or some homily from the Bible on it. This seemed a little odd since I figured them to have some sort of Native American religious belief. Well, it really was none my business.

We all headed into the dining room where Helen had us sit down and offered us glasses of ice tea. “Is anyone hungry? I’ve got roasted piñon nuts if you like,” she said.

Taking a few Dakota said, “I love these things Helen, sometime you are going to have to show me how you make them. Unfortunately, I can’t stay long. I have to get back to the park, you know.”

“Yes, yes,” Helen said. “Duty calls. You work to hard Dakota. You should take more time to watch the wildflowers grow. There is more to life than busting people for littering.”

I got the feeling this conversation had gone many times before. Helen looked at me and said, “This one is strong Chica, he has good eyes,” meaning I guess, I would make a good husband. Women—I guess they are the same everywhere; just can’t stand to see a man single and happy.

Dakota laughed at that; a clean happy sound that came out unfettered, with a musical quality.

“You know me Helen, no time for that, it’s just me and Sparky from now on.”

“You should let go Chica,” Helen soothed. “That was over two years ago and Sparky is a nice cat, but he won’t keep you safe at night out in those hills.”

“You’re right, that’s what I have my .44 Remington for.”

Helen burst out in laughter that left her whole body shaking like a giant Jell-O mold, so genuine, so full of joy that I found myself envious of her.

“Chica,” she said with a sly wink. “There are some itch’s that rifle just won’t scratch.” Then even more laughter, as to some private joke.

Helen walked Dakota out to her Jeep and I stepped out the sliding doors to the backyard to have a look at the terrain. A large freestanding swimming pool was there with several of the neighborhood kids splashing around in it, and beyond that, only scrub brush and arroyos for maybe four or five klick’s to the mountains. The land gently sloped upward from here and downward from the front of the house. An easy place to protect and difficult for an enemy to sneak up, especially with all the dogs they had.

I turned back to the house, smiling at the kids splashing in the pool and flashing back to my own carefree distant childhood and the Martin’s pool next door. Those were good days. Kind of makes a man wish he could turn the clock back sometimes.

Back in the kitchen, Helen was working on dinner as I walked in. There were cooking odors and smoke in the air from chicken frying, flat bread baking and other dishes I was unfamiliar with, but which brought rumbling reminders of how long it had

been since lunch. I sat down taking up my tea and having some of the piñon nuts that were something new to me and very tasty. I made a note to look for them back home.

Helen turned back toward me saying, “You have dreams you can’t explain don’t you?”

“Is it written on my face or something?” I replied. “Everyone seems to be asking me that lately.”

“My husband is a Shaman and a man of God,” Helen said. “For several months now he has been seeing a powerful man of Spirit coming who will do battle with the forces of the Evil One.” She came close, bending over and looking me in the eyes. “You may be the one.

There is an aura about you that even I can see, but you don’t know yet. You are still asleep.”

She went back to cooking again as though that explained everything. I suddenly felt a headache coming on and went out to the bike to get some aspirin out of my saddlebags, as well as some fresh air.

Things were moving too fast for me in directions that were totally unfamiliar to me. I was feeling like I had been dropped into the wrong L.Z. and told to fight an enemy I knew nothing about. After digging out the aspirin I straightened up and saw a little girl to my left staring up at me with little almond eyes and a dirty face that needed a mother’s care.

“Are you the One?” she asked in such a forward and innocent way that I was taken back for a moment.

“The One,” I said, not really understanding the question, especially coming from such an angelic little face. “I don’t know what you mean darlin’,” was all I could muster for an answer. She ran off giggling and repeating herself over again, “The One, The One.” In the distance, I could see a dust cloud approaching and looked around to see if anyone else had noticed, which of course they had. From another ranch house came a voice, “It’s okay Tom, it’s Jason.”

It was strange having all these people knowing me, but me not knowing them.

Still, I did feel safe for the first time in several days. The voice emerged from the shadows and took on a face. He was short, only about five-six and heavy set, but moved with the grace of an athlete. He walked up to me and I could now see long braids, slanted eyes that were Indian black, and features that showed him to be in his late twenties or early thirties.

“John Little Bear,” he said with a laugh, as if at some private joke and extended his hand to me. He was wearing the old familiar anchor tat as well.

“Semper Fi,” I said.

“Semper Fi, little brother,” he returned. “Jason will be here in about twenty

minutes. Don’t worry about the kids, they are all worked up about the legend, ya know.

They think everybody on a bike is ‘The One’, he said as though I knew what he was talking about.

“You are safe here bro. Nobody can sneak up on us here. We have been working on a perimeter warning system for a while now. We included some nasties that will really put a hurt on anybody stupid enough to show up without an invite.”

“Thanks,” I said, but I was still curious. “What is this business of ‘The One’ all about?”

A shadow passed over John’s face as though he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Guess I said too much, seems I just can’t keep my mouth shut,” he said nervously looking away. “Jason will bring you up to speed when he gets here. Guess I better get back to my post.” He sped off before I could get anything else out of him.

Feeling confused, I turned back to the house, and headed in before anything else could happen. As I reached for the screen door a crow perched on the roof over the front door swooped down and attacked me. It actually clawed me on the forehead and screeched like a soul from Hell as it took off into the sky.

Helen banged open the screen door and shouted, “Be gone in the name of Jesus!” and grabbing me by the arm she jerked me into the house. “You’re bleeding,” she said handing me a kitchen towel. “That demon bird has marked you.”

“It’s only a crow,” I said, only half believing it though. There had seemed something almost demonic in its cry and its choice of target. “Thanks Helen,” I said.

“He almost got my eyes.”

She was headed for the first aid kit that was kept in the kitchen. “Yes,” she said, “he was sent to blind you if he could, to make you more vulnerable. You will have to be very careful from now on about animals—and people. Jason will be able to tell you more.” She busied herself with cleaning and dressing my wound. As she was finishing, Jason came in like a whirlwind from the desert, his face full of concern and worry.

“What happened,” he asked Helen looking at the bandage on my face. “I felt something attack our house as I was driving up.”

Helen quickly filled him in on the crow attack while I sat wondering how I had managed to find myself on the wrong side of Alice’s looking glass.

Looking at me, Jason finally said, “I think we may have to move tonight. They are closing in faster than I anticipated.”

“Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” I demanded, sounding a bit hysterical even to myself. “Who is closing in on what? Who is ‘The One’, and why do people seem to think it’s me?”

“In good time Tom,” said Jason. “But right now we need to move fast. They have found us through the crow and whether you are ‘The One’ or not they think you are,

and they will be coming for you. You will not be the only one in danger; everyone here will be.”

Jason began collecting various kit bags from the closets in the living room and bedroom as he spoke, “You must prepare for battle or else we all may be killed.” He threw me a large military backpack as he pulled on night camo’s. My own clothes were dark enough for night op’s, so I just pulled on the backpack and smeared on some black camo as I waited for Jason to finish getting ready.

“Take the AR-15 and an ammo bag, unless you would prefer the 12 gauge.”

“I’ll take the 12 gauge if we are going to be in close quarters. I’ve got my K-bar, too.”

“We will be face to face if it comes to it, but I am hoping they will hold off for a couple of days to see what our next move will be. They may come at us tonight with a small patrol though, just to see what we’re made of, so be ready.”

I picked up the military spec. Mossburg pump and jacked in seven rounds, including one up the spout. Also a bandolier of ammo holding twenty-four rounds and a box of loose ammo for a total of fifty-five rounds. They were all double-ought shot and guaranteed to drop anything out to about sixty meters.

A very nasty weapon for in-close fighting and one the insurgents in Iraq really hated. The sound of the slide jacking in a round was often enough to make them surrender. Being a martyr was cool, but not if you were blown in half. Vestal virgins, it seemed, weren’t interested in half a man, or worse, surviving with arms or legs blown off and unable to enter paradise at all.

“Where are we going,” Jason went on, “anything that moves may be the enemy, whether it has two legs or four, so my advice is—shoot first, ask questions later.”

“I hear ya bro,” I said, shoving my K-bar down my boot top. “Can I ask where it is that we are going?”

“Better not to say,” he said pointing to his ears. “You never know who might be listening.”



CHAPTER 7

“Keep close to me and maintain trail discipline at all times,” Jason said to the little group of men gathered by a wrecked pickup. There were three shadows beside our own; one I had already met, John Little Bear, and two I had not. It was too dark to make out much, but I could tell by their silhouettes that they were big men, not the kind you would want to have on the wrong end of a back alley brawl.

They introduced themselves as David Long Bow and Simon Bright Star. I did not know it at the time, but these men would soon form the core of our elite Band of Brothers.

As we moved off into the darkness, Jason took point with me right behind, David to the left, and Simon to the right. John fell back to cover our rear, all without a sound, as though each man instinctively knew where his place was. I had only experienced that kind of unit awareness a few times even in Iraq and it left me feeling very secure about going into harm’s way with these men. This was something that transcended the physical and took me into the spiritual. How far it would take me, and where, is the thing legends are made of.

Moving silently across the desert floor at a quick pace, we covered maybe a mile

before Jason raised his right hand to signal a stop. I moved up next to him and took a knee as the others blended into the brush and became invisible. Somewhere in the distance a pack of coyotes were calling down the moon with their age-old song. Jason turned to me and spoke in a low whisper, “They are looking for us brother, but they are not close yet.”

With another hand signal, we started to move out again. As we rose up, we found ourselves face to face with a large coyote with big yellow eyes. I put my hand on Jason’s arm and whispered, “I know this one.” I leaned closer to him, almost nose to nose, then with an almost silent yip he turned and trotted off a few yards; stopped and looked back at us as though waiting for us to follow.

“I think we should follow him,” I said to Jason.

“Yes little brother, he is your guide.”

So we set off after him at, forgive me, a dogtrot. After another mile or so, the coyote stopped then went down on his belly indicating we were to stay low and quiet.

A few minutes later, we could hear the pack as they cut back and forth looking for our trail. We stayed quiet for a good ten minutes before the coyote finally stood up, sniffed the air, and then moved out again. Silently we picked up and began to follow. At the base of a mesa we entered a canyon and followed it through twists and turns that left me lost in no time.

We finally came to a spot where the coyote went to ground again and Jason spoke, “We’re here, though it beats me how he knew where we were going.”

“He seems to have a connection with me.” I said. “I saw him as an old man in one of my dreams.”

“That would explain a lot,” said Jason as he reached down and pulled up a trap door cleverly disguised as a big rock. It was made of fiberglass and painted to match the surroundings so well that no one would likely spot it. He went down a ladder and motioned for me to follow. Once inside one of the others said, “God bless,” and closed the hatch over us.

Jason turned on a small camp lantern that threw out a weak yellow light that was just enough to illuminate our little cave. It was about ten by twelve by five meters and crammed at one end with boxes of M.R.E.’s (Meals Ready to Eat), ammo of various calibers, an M-60 machine gun, grenades (both frag and smoke), and even a case of claymores. On some shelves I saw flares and medical supplies that could outfit a small surgery, and some more modern stuff in the electronic range.

“Quite a stash here Jason, you must be expecting a real war.”

Turning to me, his face becoming very serious, he said, “You have no idea Tom. There is a war going on out there and, has in fact, been going on since the universe came

into being. The forces of Light and Dark, Good and Evil, Heaven and Hell; however you want to phrase it brother. We are at war and to paraphrase Jesus in Mark chapter nine, verse forty: ‘Anyone who is not for us is against us’.” As he was reading, I noticed that the bookmark he was using was the same one I had seen back at the Cactus Inn: ‘Jesus would have been a biker.’

“The war has always been in the spiritual world, but has now crossed over into the physical world in a big way. The world we live in brother. And we are going to have to take up weapons, not only to defend ourselves, but to overcome the enemy if we are to survive.”

This was the longest speech the big man had made yet and was followed by an equally long silence during which he seemed to be organizing his thoughts.

“You say you have been having dreams, tell me about them little brother.”

I told him about the little room in Iraq. The white haired old man, the coyote, my uncle Bob, even the little biker chick, and the gun deal she referred to. I talked into the early morning, pouring out my feelings of confusion and frustration, my lack of belief in this God of his and how He could possibly want me in this spiritual war since I was not a spiritual man. I sure was no Jesus freak and told him to his face.

“Maybe not little brother, but like they say, ‘there ain’t no atheists in a foxhole.’

You answered his call in that upper room. You knew whose voice it was, so you can sit there and deny him if you want too, but the fact is—you answered the call. That is why you are different; why you have that pain inside of you that just wont go away. That pain you feel is your separation from God.” “Wait a minute big man, how do you know what I feel,” I said, even though I knew exactly what he was talking about. It just kind'a ticked me off that everybody around here seemed to know way too much about me. It was creepy, ya know and I said as much to Jason, but instead of backing off he just smiled and said, “Been there little brother, just where you are now. The difference being, I guess, that you are under more pressure now, because the bad guys are coming after you before you have been properly prepared.”

“What if I refuse, will they go away?” somehow they would find someone else to hassle.

I asked thinking that, if I refused,

“’Fraid not bro. If you are ‘The One’, then it is a matter of destiny not choice.”

“Now would be a good time to tell me what ‘The One’ is.”

“He is someone I saw in my dreams. A mighty Warrior of God sent to conquer the forces of the Evil One.” “How do you know I am the one in your dream?”

“I don’t yet. But I do believe you have been called.”

“But I thought we all had the freedom to choose, isn’t that what the Bible says?

We aren’t puppets right?”

“Were you ever baptized little brother?”

I thought back to that little Baptist church in Jonestown, the preacher asking me for my confession of faith, and pushing me under the water. I remembered hearing Angels singing and a feeling of overwhelming love that brought me to tears. I was fifteen and, though I believed, I did it because it was something I just thought I was supposed to do. It was like peer pressure, ya know.

I thought it didn’t take, because years later I began to fall away. I started chasing girls, drinking, and raising hell as fast as I could. I was out to have fun and Jesus just wasn’t part of the equation.

“Yes I was, but that was a long time ago and I really have not lived a Christian life since then. There ain’t no way I could be forgiven after the things I’ve done Jason. You just don’t know man, you just don’t know.” But even as the words left my mouth I knew I was wrong; he did know. Something in those gentle black eyes said, ‘been there, done that.’

“Tom, a long time ago a man named Paul persecuted the early church. He was even present at the stoning of Steven. He killed Christians in his zeal to serve God, as he understood him. On the road to Damascus Jesus called him out, just like he is calling you. He went on to write half the books of the New Testament you know. If Paul could be forgiven, so can you little brother.”

I sat there thinking about the things I had done in Iraq: the kids I had killed, innocent lives I had taken, and even if it was war—it was still murder.

“Brother,” he said. “The hardest thing you gotta do is forgive yourself.”

“I don’t know how Jason. How can I ask God to forgive me. I knew what I did was wrong and did it anyway.”

Jason opened up his Bible again and turned it to John 3:16 and read, “For God so loved the world that He gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”

“I know that one Jason, I’ve seen it a hundred times at football games, ya know.

The guy with the tie-die wig and the sign saying, John 3:16.” I was trying to make a joke of it, but Jason only gave me a little smile. The kind that says, ‘I know and so do you.’

“The Bible talks a lot about forgiving, but it also talks a lot about vengeance and judgment,” I said.

“Yes it does little brother. It speaks of judgment for unbelievers, but forgiveness for those who are covered by the blood of Jesus,” Jason answered. He sat for several minutes looking lost in thought while I went over my memories of sermons about vengeance and the ‘Wrath of God’ that I had listened to on so many Sunday mornings in my youth.

“Tom, have you ever heard of Augustine, the Christian scholar?”

“I believe I’ve heard the name, but honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever read any of his

stuff.”

“He gave one of the best illustrations of what forgiveness is that I have ever heard.

He stated that man, in God’s sight, is no more than a pile of excrement. Because of our sin and self-will, we are un-holy. He is so holy on the other hand, that he can’t even bear to look at us. Just as most of us would not care to sit around looking at piles of shit all day, ‘scuse my Irish. But the blood of Jesus is like a layer of pure white snow that falls from heaven and covers that disgusting pile of crap, so that God no longer sees what is beneath—he only sees the pure white snow.”

I sat thinking about this example for a minute, and then he went on with another.

“The Bible talks a lot about sheep and shepherds ya know?”

“Yes,” I said.

“My grandpa raised sheep and I remember, as a kid, a little ‘God trick’ he taught us. Now and then a Ewe would die giving birth and the lamb would too if we could not get another Ewe to adopt it. Now, what my grandpa would do is clean that lamb up real good, washing away all trace of its mother, all the blood, and everything ya know.

“Then he would go out to the flock and find another Ewe that had just given birth.

He would collect the placenta and then rub it all over the orphan lamb. Then he would take that orphan and present it to the Ewe. She would sniff the orphan, smell her own blood, and accept the lamb as her own.

“You see Tom, it’s kind of like that with us and God. We get covered by the blood of Jesus so that God sees his blood and accepts us as his own. ‘By his blood we are made perfect in the sight of God and joint heirs to the kingdom’ (Romans 8:17).”

“You’ve given me a lot to think about Jason,” I said, “but I am feeling really tired and hungry right now. How ‘bout we have a couple of those tasty M.R.E.’s and take a nap?”

“Okay little brother, I’m kind’a tired too. We can talk more after we rest.”

With the light turned off, I lay on my cot thinking of the things Jason had said when I felt an overwhelming conviction to get on my knees and ask God to forgive me.

Jason’s breathing had fallen into that soft cadence that indicated sleep so I rolled onto my knees and reaching back through the years, I began to pray.

“Father God, I don’t know how to pray to you anymore, but I am going to try. I ask that you would forgive me my sins, that you would make me white as snow, and restore me to a loving relationship with you. Please Father I have sinned against you and only you. Please forgive me.”

At that moment, I felt something deep down inside me like a huge dam bursting.

Waves of emotion began to wash over me like some huge tidal wave. I began to shake so hard that I lost control and could not hold myself up. A sound seemed to be coming from somewhere, like a lost child crying for his mother. That cry was coming from me and I realized I could not stop it. All those years of pain were coming out in a torrent of

emotion that could not be stopped anymore than a freight train can be stopped by a sheet of paper stretched across the tracks.

I felt someone holding me and a voice whispering in my ear, “It’s okay son, let it out, let it all out.”

And I did, with tears pouring down my cheeks in cataracts like Niagara Falls.

Great sobs racked my body that probably registered a good nine on the Richter scale until all the baggage I had carried for all those years was washed away.

The last thing I remember was another voice, one I had heard before somewhere saying, “Welcome back my son.” Then came the kind of sleep that swallows like the grave; deep and restful. 

CHAPTER 8

I was looking at a landscape devoid of life stretching for miles in all directions. I seemed to be on top of a mountain, but I couldn’t tell where. It is an open desert, but not like in Nevada—different. No plants to speak of, only a few low bushes and no trees. On the plains in front of me are armies with numbers like the grains of sand on the beach.

They look like some obscene monster from an opium dream, constantly in motion without moving, preparing for battle at the end of Time.

“What you are seeing is the destiny of man,” came a voice from behind me. I turned and standing behind me was the old man, still looking like Charlton Heston from the ‘Ten Commandments’—complete with long robe, white hair, and staff in his right hand.

“What can I do old one? No one man could stop such a war. There must be at lest a hundred million men out there,” I said.

“You are right. You can’t stop them, nor should you. This war will bring the end of Time.”

The scene shifted, we were still high on a hill, but now we overlooked the Nevada desert once again. In the distance I could see the outlaw bikers riding the highway, leaving death and destruction in their wake, like some mad band of berserkers.

“Those men are evil my son, they are in the service of Lucifer and they do his will. They come to kill, steal, and destroy all that is good in the world. It is in the destiny of a few chosen men and women to stand against them, that good might triumph over evil, and the Hand of God be stilled from bringing about that final battle for a little while longer.”

“Are you saying I am the one to lead this battle?” I asked. “Who am I to do such a thing? I am just a poor weak sinner who doesn’t even know how to pray. You should find another; maybe Jason, he would be a better choice than me.”

“Father uses those he wants to use for reasons that are His own. He knew you before you were formed in your mother’s womb (Psalm 139:13) and he knows your strengths and weaknesses better than you or anyone else. It doesn’t matter if you believe you are the one—only whether you will answer the call.”



Smell of earth, clean, with a touch of mushroom and—omelet? I opened my eyes to the dim light of the lantern and saw Jason holding a plate under my nose.

“Denver omelet with hash browns little brother,” he said, with a real twinkle in his eye. “Not as good as what I make in the restaurant, but not bad as survival rations go.”

I sat up and took the plate from him feeling like I had not eaten in days instead of only a few hours. I dived in without regard to good manners and wolfed it down in a few quick mouthfuls.

“Easy little brother, I will need those fingers when I get back to Mom’s ya know.”

“Sorry bro,” I said as I licked the plate. “ I was feeling really starved for some reason.”

“Have any more dreams last night?” he asked as he cleaned up.

“I sure did,” I said. “It was really weird too.” I went on to tell him about it as we sat and drank coffee.

“You know Jason, I really felt like a great weight was pulled off me last night and now another has been thrown on to take its place.”

“Don’t worry little brother, you wont have to carry it alone. There are more of us out there, people you have not met yet.”

“Oh yeah?” I replied. “I don’t suppose Dakota is one of them?”

“I think she may be little brother. I saw that the two of you bonded right away, though that may not be a good thing in a combat situation you know.”

He was right of course; it isn’t good to be distracted by someone you care for in combat. It’s too easy to make a mistake that gets somebody hurt or killed. You got to keep your wits about you in a firefight. ‘Course I always cared about my men when we were fighting too, but I could see how this might be different.

Jason was talking again, “You met David, John, and Simon last night, and there will be others Tom. I have seen twelve in my visions—a nice Biblical number, just like the apostles right?”

“Yeah brother, just like the apostles,” I said, as I suddenly remembered that one of them was a traitor.

“What next Jason?” I asked. “We can’t just stay in this hole, nice as it is, we will have to go out and take the battle to the enemy. How are we to know who the bad guys are anyway? And since we are commanded not to kill, what are we going to do with them when we do find them?”

“Those who raise their hands against us are our enemies Tom. They wont be hard to recognize and, yes, the sixth commandment states that ‘thou shall not murder.’ In war we kill because we have to. It is up to us to judge whether it is a just cause or not.”

His eyes seemed to look back into the past for a moment before he went on.

“I believe we were wrong in Viet Nam. I believe it was not a just war and we paid a heavy price for that decision. Saddam Hussein was a madman and needed to be taken out, but again, I do not believe it was a just war. Those decisions are made at a higher level little brother. We, as soldiers, fight and kill as we are ordered, because we are not the ones in power. However, it is our duty to make sure that the innocent are protected as much is possible. There will always be collateral damage in war and it is our duty to limit those casualties when we can.”

He took a break here to let me consider his words while he communicated with the men outside. Each reported that the area was all clear.

“So killing bad guys is okay, is that what you are saying? Wouldn’t it be our duty to convert them or lock them up instead?” I asked.

“Sure little brother, but that is going to be up to them. They always have a choice, but these guys are fully in the service of the Evil One and most will choose to die just like the murder-bombers back there in the Middle East. Their motto is ‘Better to stand in Hell than serve on my knees in Heaven.’ There are others out there who take the word to the outlaws, like Herb Shreve and the Christian Motorcycle Association. However, these guys are looking to kill us because we are trying to stop them from bringing on the Apocalypse.”

I had to think about that one for a minute and then asked, “How can they do that?

I thought only God could do that.”

“That is true bro, only God knows the day (Mt. 24:36) and only he has the power, but the Evil one has deceived these people into believing that they can bring about the end of the world. I don’t know what their plan is, but they think they can become the rulers of the world by removing all the followers of Christ. They don’t believe there will be a final battle of Armageddon (Rev. 16:16). No Christians, no battle. They have fallen for the lie, just like Eve did back in the Garden of Eden.”

“So it is up to us to keep them under control. But keep them from what exactly?

The law would handle them if they just went on a killing spree wouldn’t they?” I asked.

“Yes Tom, the law would as long as it is against the law to kill us. But what if it was legal like it is in a lot of those Middle Eastern countries? Under Islamic law, it is not illegal to kill unbelievers. They are commanded to kill anyone who does not submit to Islam. All they have to do is change the law, then it’s open season, and believe me the day is coming. The media already treat us as though we are all intolerant bigots bent on making everyone believe what we want them to believe or else they are all going to Hell.

“As usual with the Devil, it is partly truth and partly lie. If they don’t believe, they will go to Hell, but it is not our job to make anyone believe. We couldn’t even if we wanted too. God does not want lip service, so such a conversion would not help that person or keep them out of Hell. As Jesus said in Mathew 7:22-23, ‘On judgment day many will tell me. Lord, Lord, we prophesied in your name and cast out demons in your name and performed many miracles in your name. But I will reply. I never knew you.

Go away; the things you did were unauthorized.’

“The world is headed for this belief, ‘it does not matter which road you take, because they all lead to the same place.’ You and I know they don’t and that is why they will have to kill us. We are the witnesses who will not be silenced except in death (Rev.11:7-10).”

“Okay brother, I think I am beginning to understand, but I really need to take a break and think on all this for a little while, if that is okay with you.”

“Sure, you got the gist of anyway, the rest is just details and strategy. I need to go out and check the perimeter anyway. When I come back, I will knock exactly three times on the cover and say ‘Jesus loves you.’ The others are also aware of this code, so if you hear anything else, be ready to shoot.

With that, he lifted the cover and slipped out into the bright daylight, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my doubts.



CHAPTER 9

I must have dozed off because I found myself standing in the souq (a marketplace) with people all around me, but looking closer I saw they were all women. Suddenly they stopped what they were doing and turned toward me. All their eyes were on me, as though I had suddenly appeared naked as a child.

As one body they started producing weapons, from shopping bags, from under their clothes, from baskets holding fruit, it seemed from everywhere. All these weapons came to bear on me and I was the only one in the whole place that wasn’t armed. I was paralyzed and could only scream out sounds that I could not understand. Just like us shouting in English at the Iraqis—it could only have been meaningless noise to them.

They began to shoot at me and I woke up.

I could hear gunfire from outside and shouts too muffled to understand in this underground sanctuary. I grabbed the shotgun, flipped off the safety, and moved to the hatch just in time.

The sudden burst of sunlight blinded me, but I was able to make out a shadowy form in front of me. I reached up with my left arm, grabbed the guy by his vest, and pulled him down into the hole with the lid falling down over us.

Now that he was taking a nap, I kicked his Ingram automatic away and took a quick peek out of the entry cover to see what was going on outside. I could not see anyone and it had gone dead silent, so I turned my attention back to my new house-guest.

He was wearing a Satans Slaves patch, whoever they were, and I quickly stripped off his jacket to search for more weapons. I found a nice collection: several knives, two small handguns, some vials of white powder, probably speed, and an ice pick taped to the small of his back.

Sounds of someone approaching drew my attention and I grabbed up the shotgun, moved to the back of the cave again, and got ready for a fight. Three firm raps followed by the recognition phrase relieved the tension and I said, “Come on in, I have already made our guest comfortable.

The lid popped up and Jason’s face appeared, big toothy grin on his face, as he looked down at our guest he said, “He gonna be able to answer questions little brother?”

“Soon as he wakes up, I only gave him a little headache bro. Anybody else hurt?”

I asked.

“No, we’re okay,” he said with a smile. “Can’t say the same for these punks though. I know we wounded two of them, then they turned tail and ran.”

“How many total?” I asked.

“There were six including him.” He said pointing to at the unconscious man. “I would be interested to know how he knew about our hidey hole.”

“Yeah, looks like we’re going to have to move unless you want to set a trap here.”

“The trap would be good, but we’re gonna have to move everything out. I’m gonna call for some transport and in the meantime, let’s see what sleeping beauty here has to say.”

I had already used some zip ties to secure his hands behind his back and Jason reached down to roll him over onto his back. I stopped him saying, “Careful bro, I’ve seen this before,” and used my foot to flip him over. Too many times I had seen someone get the crap kicked out of them by somebody trussed up this way. As he came over he spit at us, but I was one step ahead using my boot to block his spray. It also had the advantage of directing his spittle back into his own face.

“Thanks little brother,” said Jason. “You just saved this heathen a beating.”

“Na, just put it off for a while.”

I turned my attention to the man on the floor who was still spewing a steady stream of obscenities at us.

“Shut up or I’ll pull your lower lip all the way over the top of your head,” I said as I picked up some pliers from the shelf with the medical supplies. “I haven’t done this in a while, so if I miss the first time and grab your tongue just be patient. The last Iraqi I did this to was very patient; it only cost him three teeth and part of his nose. It really improved his looks though, all the women chased him, some of the boys too.”

I poured some hot, but not too hot, coffee on his face making sure that some of it went up his nose with satisfying results. The effect is somewhat the same as water boarding, but much more painful.

“Let’s start with your name bad boy and go from there.”

What came out of his mouth wasn’t his name and would have required an entire troop of side show contortionists to accomplish, so I decided to try a different approach.

I got out one of the flares on the shelf and got Jason to help me get him out onto the ground above.

We dragged him over to a large boulder, pulled his pants down to his ankles, and draped him over belly down. I had Jason hold his head as I squatted down beside him so he could see what I was doing.

“This here is a magnesium flare that burns at around two thousand degrees Fahrenheit and is almost impossible to put out once it gets going. What it can do to human flesh is something you don’t even want to think about; then again, you might want to start thinking about it real quick ‘cause my patience is almost gone.”

I stepped around behind him greasing the end of the flare with some Vaseline and continuing to talk, “You can start by telling us how many of you there are and who your leader is.

“Last chance dude, after I light this thing off, I ain’t gonna try to pull it out.”

The thought was too much for him and he finally caved in.

“Okay, okay, you bastards. I’ll tell you everything I know.”

“Where are the Pagans that were out here two days ago?” asked Jason.

“I don’t know man, we got a call from our president, said to do whatever we was told. Our chapter enforcer took the call, okay man. I didn’t hear nothin’. He says to pack some heat, we’re going to trash some Tontos. That’s all I know man, I swear it.”

“I don’t know big brother,” I said banging a couple of rocks together and making a sound like the striker on a flare. “He does look kind’a stupid, but I think he’s not telling us everything.”

“Yeah little brother,” said Jason. “He’s got Pagans riding on his turf and don’t know a thing about it. I say—fire in the hole!” We all laughed at the joke ‘till we almost fell over.

“Okay man, gimme a chance,” he said, with spittle running down his chin. “Yeah, yeah, we know about them. They some real bad-assess man. Handlebar, their leader, put a bullet in our V.P. man, just ‘cause he wouldn’t help him look for you guys. The guy is real whack man. They was staying out by an abandoned gas station near Glendale.

They’ll kill me man, I’m dead; just shoot me. I can’t go back.”

“What are they gonna do next pinhead?” Jason asked. “How many more people from your chapter can we expect?”

“There ain’t no more man. They was only ten of us, two was out of town, and the other two in jail. I swear it man.”

“Okay Jason, I don’t think we’ll get anymore out of him. He’s too low in the group to know anything. I just got one more question for you. What does your enforcer look like? Make it a good description, and his name?”

“His handle is ‘Ripper’ and you would know him by the scar that runs from his right eye to his neck.”

With that info in the book, we let him go. After what we did to him we couldn’t give him to the police and after what he had done—he wasn’t going back to his chapter either. He really was a dead man if they found him after spilling his guts to us, so we stripped him of his patch and let him go.



CHAPTER 10

We went back to Jason’s restaurant and hooked up with the others for a war cabinet meeting. For the moment, we figured we were safe. The first probe by the enemy had shown him to be weak and disorganized. He would be licking his wounds and figuring his next move so this was time we could not afford to waste.

Over hot plates of Chiles Rellenos, refried beans, and rice, we set to the business of planning our next move.

“Dakota, were you able to get any info on that plate number we got the other day?” I asked.

“Sure did Tom,” she said and dug into her satchel bag to produce a folder. “He’s a bad character with a long and checkered history. His name is Steve Meronek, A.K.A. Handlebar. Here, read it for yourself.”

A checkered career indeed: Over thirty-six arrests starting at the tender age of eight for shoplifting (not a candy bar or something, but over a hundred dollars worth of prime rib) to murder in the first, acquitted because the witness had a sudden loss of memory.

Over the years, he was thirty-six now, he had done fifteen years in various state institutions and had been classified as an anti-social psychopath. This guy could carve you up with his right hand, while eating a Snickers bar with his left.

He had been a Pagan patch holder since he was nineteen and had worked his way up through the ranks pretty quickly. Seems like if he wanted a position with the club, he always got it; one way or another. No one had ever proved murder on him, but it was plain that trying to could get you killed.

“Looks like he has been trying to forge alliances with several clubs including Hells Servants, Satans Slaves, and a few other major one-percenters. All within the past two years. Any idea what brought that on?” I asked Dakota and the others present.

John Little Bear spoke up, “I am not sure if it is germane, but I ran across a report at the office around that time that hinted at a major gun running effort that was shaping up between the outlaw gangs and some rogue military people out of Afghanistan. Could be they’re back in business.”

“What office is that John?” I asked.

“Oh, sorry Tom,” Jason spoke up. “John is a field agent for the F.B.I. and David Long Bow, my little brother, is an officer for the Nevada State Police. Simon Bright Star is an agent for the D.E.A.” I was impressed by all these acronyms to say the least.

David was shorter than his older brother by maybe a foot in height, but easily had thirty pounds on him. He looked like his clothes could barley contain him. His sleeves had slits in them to allow for muscle flex and his neck was as large as one of my thighs. I had no doubt this guy could go bowling with Volkswagens for balls.

Simon was the exception: thin, dapper with short brown hair, gray eyes, and aquiline features. He was a gadget freak and the man to go to if you needed to hack a database. He seemed perpetually down, never smiling, a real cigar-store Indian. We had a lot in common, both of us had seen too much of man’s inhumanity to man and could not shake the demons of the past. All of them had proven themselves in Uncle Sam’s foreign exchange program—the Marines.

“Okay, David or Simon, anything from you guys that could shed some light on the situation?” I asked.

David looked up, “We have been hearing rumors for some time about a major gun deal with the bikers. Seems they are buying up large lots of weapons, but no word on what they plan to do with them. If they are looking to sell them, we sure would like to know to who.”

“How many guns we talking about Dave.” I asked.

“We estimate enough to outfit at least two squads or roughly sixty men.”

While Dave had been speaking, a new face walked in stopping to shake hands with Jason and the others. He was three meters, short red hair, blue eyes, and a manicured mustache. His clothes were government issue: dark blue sport coat and slacks, white shirt, plain blue tie, and oxford shoes; brown.

“Tom, fellas, this is Peter Gault A.T.F. field agent and a damn good man. He will

be working with us as much as he can. He was in the first Gulf war, Special Forces Army Green Beret, and a real asset for sniffing out illegal gun deals. Have you found anything out for us Pete?” asked Jason.

“Yeah, good to meet you Tom, look forward to working with you.” He had a good strong handshake, clear eyes, and a strong sense of self. I could tell he going to be a good man to have on our side “Reports have been coming from Interpol indicating that a large shipment of arm’s left Russia about six weeks ago bound for the U.S. We tracked them as far as Cuba and then lost them. We believe they are going to try to bring them in from Mexico by air somewhere here in the Nevada desert. Our best estimate is that it will be sometime in the next four or five days. They will most likely disguise it as Agro products.”

“What are the chances we can catch them at the airport Pete,” asked Simon.

“Depends on how smart they are and how patient. If they send them fully assembled we should be able to spot them, but if they break them into pieces it will be a lot more difficult.”

“Okay then,” I said. “We know they are trying to bring in a lot of firepower, but not why. Most of these gangs are loyal Americans and not likely to be involved with foreign terrorists, so let’s stick to what they do best; drugs?”

“Maybe Meronek has decided to branch out into something new,” said Simon.

“They could get plenty of weapons right here in the good ol’ U.S.A. and not have to take near the risk.”

“Simon’s right,” shot back a new voice. Everyone turned to see the newcomer who introduced himself as James Hightower, N.S.A. (National Security Agency). He was five-ten and probably no more than sixty-four kilo’s, with graying auburn hair, limpid blue eyes, clean-shaven, and dressed casually in blue jeans, leather C.H.I.P.s (California Highway Patrol) jacket, T-shirt, and engineer boots.

“Our friend Meronek has more in mind than a simple gun deal, but what he does want will require weapons that can’t be traced back to him or anyone else.”

Taking a moment to walk around the room shaking hands he finally came up to me, “Your Tom aren’t you?”

“Guilty as charged,” I said.

“Can you say; Area 51?”

It hung there in the air like a triple burrito fart.

“Area 51!” I repeated as though I had just been told the Vatican was really just a front for Bingo. “I thought Area 51 was a myth. What could Area 51 have to do with these jerks?”

“It’s no myth, it exists. We can’t be sure what it is they want there, only Meronek can answer that.”

“Maybe I can help ya there partner,” rumbled a voice like quiet thunder from behind a stack of magazines. “Jake Holland, F.B.I. Special Investigations Unit.” Jake was an impressive looking man: six-two, close to one hundred twenty kilos of solid muscle, shaved head, steel gray eyes, hardware all over his face and ears, and tat’s everywhere but his face. This guy looked the quintessential biker: leather vest, no shirt, leather jeans, big Harley boots, and plenty of chains hanging from everywhere.

“Okay,” I said, “fill us in Mr. Holland.”

“Call me Bones, please.” He said in voice that sounded like a tiger purring over a fresh kill. “I’ve been undercover with the Devils Angels in Kingman now for four years.

I had some contact with Meronek and his group of degenerates. Seems like he ran across some psychic type about three years ago and ever since, he’s been getting more and more weird. He keeps talking about bringing on Armageddon by capturing an alien weapon system that is hidden in one of the hangers there.

“He sees himself as the Anti-Christ and somehow destined to rule the world. One of our people in his group says he has been doing a lot of speed and acid for the past two years as well. No doubt in my mind that the guy has had a total break with reality and this psychic is manipulating him.

“Nobody has ever seen her though. She calls herself Madam Blavatsky, but there is no record of her anywhere. She has some kind of agenda, but we don’t know what it is; other than this whacked out scheme. Whatever it is, Meronek isn’t talking about it.”

“Your agent a little brunette girl, about five-six, one hundred thirty pounds?” asked Dakota.

“Yeah,” answered Bones, “You met her?”

“Yes, here in the restaurant. She tipped us that Meronek was going to try for a shootout in here to nail Tom. She looked very scared.”

“Maybe we should think about pulling her out,” said John.

“I would rather not if we can help it,” said Bones. “We need to know who this Blavatsky is and she is our only source right now. Mary Ann can handle herself, she is a top rated agent in the bureau and she knows how to get out if she needs too.”

“Mind if I ask who’s Old Lady she is?” I asked, wondering how she could be with these guys without being asked to compromise her morals.

“She told Meronek that she was a priestess of Antoine LeVay’s Satanic church and her power came from remaining a virgin. So far it has worked for her, keeping him entertained with Tarot card readings and feeding his ego,” said John.

“Okay, great,” I said. “But none of this explains why he is trying to kill me.”

A voice from the booth behind me turned my blood to ice, “Maybe I can help you with that one Nephew.”



CHAPTER 11

Somewhere, there was a voice calling my name, a woman’s voice, a voice I knew.

“Tom? You okay Tom?” It was Dakota’s voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said coming up out of a deep dark well. “Sorry, for a moment I thought I heard my Uncle Bob’s voice. He died in Viet Nam in ’67.”

“The rumors of my death are exaggerated Nephew,” I heard as Uncle Bob’s face came into focus beside me. I started to feel that sinking feeling again, my field of vision was closing in to nothing. “Hold on Nephew, don’t go away now.”

I started to feel anger boiling up in me, turning everything topsy-turvy. I was trying to talk, but nothing was coming out of my mouth.

“I know Nephew, but there is good reason for what happened. This was not just some cruel joke played on you and your dad. A little later on I will tell you about everything that happened, but right now we got bigger fish to fry okay?”

I was beginning to hyperventilate and my ears were starting to buzz.

“I think we better give him a few minutes guys. This is a lot for him to take in all at once,” Jason said. “Drinks are on the house, everybody relax a minute.”

Everyone moved over to the lunch counter for coffee and soft drinks leaving Bob and me alone. I looked at Bob the same way I imagine the Apostles must have looked at Jesus after the resurrection. I reached out, touched him with a finger, and said, “Now I know how Thomas must have felt. How can you be alive after all these years and not let us know. Dad thinks he killed you in Nam. How could you do this to him?” My voice had gotten really loud and I was on the edge of hysteria. Part of me was ready to kill him and the other desperately wanted to hug him and smother him with kisses as he had done to me when I was just a kid.

“Calm down Tom,” Jason said as he tried to smooth my emotions. “Bob couldn’t help it. He had amnesia about who he was and where he came from up until about a year ago. He was in deep with the program and it was felt that you, and your family, would be safer if he did not contact you.”

“Who felt that?” I demanded. “Who?” “I’m sorry Nephew, but you will just have to accept that as an answer for now. If they want you to know, they will contact you. Until then, please try to believe me, I did not do this to hurt you or Joe.”

I got up, walked outside to my bike, fired up the motor, and roared off into the heat wave of late afternoon. Too much for one day, I just could not take anymore. I had to find a nice dark place with plenty of cold beer and nobody to bother me for a few hours.

Twenty minutes out of Moapa, I came to the little town of Glendale and found what I was looking for. A little place called the Iron Horse Saloon and Billiard Parlor.

There were a few pickups and local bikes in the parking lot so I swung in and parked where my bike could not be seen from the road.

Inside, I found a nice spot in the rear where my back was safe and waited for some service, which wasn’t long. A cute little redhead with an enormous rack walked up and asked, “What’ll it be sweetie?”

“I’ll have a beer and a lap dance when you get the time.”

With a giggle that produced lovely waves of motion under her tank top she turned and said, as she was walking away, “Names Tracy, be right back with your beer sweetie.”

When she came back with the brew, I gave her a twenty and told her to keep them coming. There were several guys and a few gals playing pool and pretty much passing away a small town evening, just as people probably were all over the country. The beer was cold, but for some reason it just wasn’t hitting the spot tonight like it used too.

Things just kept spinning around in my head: Uncle Bob not dead, standing in front of me, all five feet ten inches of him with the same blond hair and gray eyes as my dad.

There was a nagging itch at the back of my mind that I had seen his face more than once in the past few days. I don’t know how long I sat there, but the waitress came over and set a drink in front of me saying, “Black Jack, neat. He said you would know who it came from.”

The spell was broken; I looked around but saw no familiar faces. Outside it had gotten dark, but the parking lot lights revealed Bob sitting on a bike next to mine. I left the Jack sitting there and walked out, not really sure what I was going to do or say. When I got to where I had parked, Bob and his bike were gone even though I had heard no one drive away.

Suddenly, somebody hit me in the back throwing me several feet in the air and knocking my bike over too. I hit the pavement rolling and felt the fires of Hell scorching my back. I could swear I heard a voice booming, “Your mine Harper,” as the world was lit in surrealistic shades of orange and red.

I came to rest on my back with my ears ringing, and smoke rising from the hair of my head. The bar was a vision of chaos; a cosmic Bar-b-que with people running through the parking lot with their bodies on fire. Vehicles were exploding in great balls of fire with gasoline spraying its pyrotechnic death in all directions. I had been spared the full force of the blast by a van I had parked behind, but I could see that if I did not get moving fast I would be caught up in the holocaust as well.

The smell of gasoline and burning human flesh was overpowering, threatening to

make me throw up as I ran to the bike. Out of no where I suddenly felt super-natural strength come over me, powering me along as I yanked the nearly four hundred kilos of bike up on its wheels, threw my leg over the saddle, and hitting the starter, I roared out of the parking lot into the stygian night, leaving a vision of Dante’s Inferno in my rearview mirrors.

I headed for Jason’s restaurant and the safety of numbers. I was hitting close to ninety when I saw something in my mirrors that gripped my heart with icy claws. They looked like the bright red eyes of demons, about a dozen sets, closing on me fast. I opened the throttle all the way with the bike lurching under me, the air flowing into the carb with the roar of a Kansas cyclone, the speedo cranking over a hundred, and climbing fast.

The air pushing against me became a living force trying to push me off as I went flat on the tank to streamline myself. Even with the roar in my ears from engine and air deafening me, I could still hear those demon shrieks behind me. I screamed out, “Lord Jesus, if you care about me, SAVE ME NOW!” The motor cut out as I suddenly felt a peace I had never known before descend upon me. The howls behind me ceased as I slowed to a stop—out of gas. I sat there for several minutes before I finally got off, fell to my knees for the second time in my life, and thanked the Lord for delivering me.

As I got off my knees, I heard the yip of a coyote in the distance and knew it was my friend letting me know he was with me. I made a note to ask his name next time we met. I turned the petcock on the tank over to reserve, fired up the engine, and pulled onto the road again toward Mom’s.



CHAPTER 12

“I want to know where he is you morons,” screamed Steve ‘Handlebar’ Meronek.

“I don’t wanna hear no damn excuses understand?”

The rest of the gang sat looking slack-jawed and scared. Handlebar was more than capable of killing someone when he was in one of his rages. That was one of the reasons they had not picked up a prospect in over two years—word had gotten around.

“Where’s Shiloh?” he bellowed, throwing an empty beer bottle against the wall of the abandoned filling station with a satisfying crash, pieces of glass spraying in all directions to join their cousins littering the floor.

“She went out to get her cards Handlebar,” said the girl named Gomer ‘Bittytitty’ Reaux. She was thin, too thin, and had the look of a worn out stripper though she was

only in her early thirty’s. She was Handlebar’s ‘property’ for the past year, and in that time, she had aged ten years. She grabbed another beer from the cooler and brought it to him twisting off the cap before putting it in his hand.

The door opened and Shiloh walked in carrying the little bag that contained her ‘magic’. She sat down at an old table and began to mumble her incantations while shuffling the Tarot cards.

“I must know where he is,” Handlebar repeated. “Show me his future.”

“The cards reveal what they will Handlebar, you know that. Here shuffle,” she said as she passed the deck to him.

Meronek shuffled the cards and handed them back to Shiloh, who began to make the spread. Still chanting to herself she laid the cards out on the table slowly, as though each movement was somehow sacred, until she had made the full spread.

“Well witch, what do they tell you?”

“He has powerful forces watching over him. You can find him tonight at a place with pool tables. It may be the last time She (meaning Madam Blavatsky) will be able to help you.”

“What do you mean? She has more power than that pissant coyote of his.”

“Perhaps,” Shiloh said, “but there are greater powers than either of them in this battle.”

“Go on witch,” Handlebar growled. “What powers would that be?”

“Nothing on Earth Handlebar.” She left it there for him to figure out as she picked up her cards, put them back in her bag, and waited to see what would happen next.

“Saddle up you pathetic band of losers,” Handlebar barked. “Let’s find this Tom Terrific and Bar-b-que his ass.” As they made their way out, one of them picked up a L.A.W.s (Light Anti-Tank Weapon) rocket.

 The parking lot at Mom’s was packed, the booths and tables filled with Saturday night customers on their way to somewhere else after a good meal. I asked the girl at the register where Jason and the others had gone and she handed me a note by way of answer.

Inside was a detailed map of the local area with mile markings and directions to another ‘safe’ place. I just hoped it was safer than the last one.

On the TV in the restaurant the fire and explosion at the Iron Horse was being reported: Six dead with a dozen injured and no explanation as to the cause. More details at ten as they always say.

One face in the crowd caught my attention though, it was Meronek’s lieutenant:

tall and stooped over as if gravity and life had beaten him down. He was almost skeletal.

I remembered Handlebar calling him Deadman and I knew his presence was more than coincidence.

The thought that they had butchered those people at the bar just to get at me sent a feeling of revulsion through me. I made a resolution to track them down and bring them to justice no matter what it took. This was war now and no quarter would be given.

I went back outside and headed toward the safe house indicated on the map. I had been driving south about twenty minutes down state 168 toward I-15 out of Moapa, toward the Moapa reservation, when something in the distance caused me to slow down; a pair of eyes reflecting light back at me. My first thought was every biker’s nightmare— deer.

As I drew closer, I saw it was a single coyote. He did not move, but stood facing me broadside as I pulled to a stop in front of him. I could see no headlights in either direction so I shut down the bike and killed the lights. I started to put down the side stand when he suddenly bared his teeth and started to growl in a very unfriendly way.

“What’s the matter old one? Road Runner get away from you again?” I asked him. The way he was acting told me there was something wrong here. Again, I peered off into the darkness and suddenly lights appeared behind me. The coyote skittered off the road behind a dune and, pushing the bike, I followed. We both hunkered down and waited until, with a roar like a hundred banshees, the bikes passed us and disappeared into the night.

Turning back to the coyote, I found the old man sitting cross-legged and watching me.

“They seek your blood and will not be satisfied until they drink their fill Tom Harper.”

“Yeah, I get that,” I replied. “They just killed six people trying to get me. I’ve had enough of being the hunted, I must become the hunter.”

“Yes Tom, but it is more important to find the one who leads them. Destroy these and She will only find others.”

“Tell me more about this She old one and before you go, how about telling me your name.”

“She is an old spirit and a servant of the Evil One.” “Okay, but how do I fight a spirit?”

“You can’t yet, but you will learn.”

A sudden buzzing behind me, the trademark of the Southwestern Diamondback, drew my full attention. There was nothing there and when I turned back, he was gone.

“Old fart still didn’t tell me his name.”

I sat down with a pocket torch and looked at the map to see if there was some

other way to get to the area indicated when I had the feeling that the others needed me. I fired up the bike and took off in the direction the bad guys had gone. It was pay back time and with seven or eight of my friends in front of them and me behind the coroner was going to be putting in some major overtime tonight.



CHAPTER 13

“They’re coming,” Jason said. “They should be here in about twenty minutes.”

“How do you know?” asked Dakota. “Ear to the ground Kimosabe?”

“Very funny paleface,” retorted Jason with a smile. “Got a call from Mary Ann. She says they found out Tom got away and was headed here. Probably got a crow working for them, so we need to move fast, these guys are packing some serious hardware. Jake, Peter, Simon, take the left flank, and the M-60 in the tower. James and David to the right on the old bus with the .50. Me, John, Dakota, and Bob, if he shows, will defend the cave here.

“Let them get close and wait for us to shoot first so as to draw them in as much as possible. Try to stay out of sight of any birds.” Looking around at everyone he finally added, “Go with God.” Everyone headed to their positions silently and with deadly purpose.

Jake, Peter, and Simon climbed up into the old stone tower that had been built by Native Americans somewhere in the distant past. There was a gun slit cut into it and they pulled the canvas cover off the M-60, 7.62 caliber light machine gun, which had been stationed there. With a fire rate of 550 R.P.M., it could definitely ruin the enemies best laid plans.

On the right, James and David clambered up on the top of an old British doubledecker bus that had been brought over years ago as a tourist attraction in Las Vegas.

Lack of parts and bad management had finally brought it out here to the desert to entertain the pack rats and prairie dogs.

On the upper deck, thick plates of steel had been fashioned into a gun tub, and a Browning AN M-2 H.B. .50-caliber heavy machine gun was mounted on a gimbal to provide a wide field of fire, covering everything from the tower on the left, to the cliffs on the right. If you have never seen a Ma Duce in action firing at 500 R.P.M., all I can tell you is the word ‘awesome’ describes it like ‘bad’ describes an F-5 tornado.

Up in the cave Jason and John busied themselves with sandbags for firing

platforms, while Dakota broke out and arranged grenades setting them in rows—flashbangs to the front to disorient, frags in the middle, and H.E. (High Explosive) in the rear in case they got too close.

With the sandbags arranged, Jason and the others took up their AR-15’s, which had been converted to full-auto, and readied themselves for the coming fight just as the bad guys pulled over a rise about a quarter klick away.

“Okay,” said John, “here they come, lock and load.”

Jason could be heard muttering Psalm 23: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside still waters, he restores my soul. He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever. Amen.”

Dakota in turn, was quoting Psalm 27, “The LORD is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear?”

John, practical as always, said, “Kill’em all, God will know his own!”



Handlebar could see the cliffs coming up by the way they blocked out the stars.

They were getting close so he hand signaled the others to slow down. Again using hand signals, he directed them to fan out into a v-shaped formation. The ground here on the sides of the dirt road was smooth enough, but you had to be careful. You could find yourself at the bottom of an arroyo without seeing it coming.

At a hundred meters, he could just make out the tower and the bus, but there was no sign of the cave. By not stopping to recon the area, Handlebar was about to make a major tactical error. Arrogance, blood lust, and drugs overcame good sense. At fifty meters, he signaled a stop killing the motors, but leaving the lights on, and had everyone dismount.

“Stoneface, Cracker, Jinks, and Roady you go left and check out the bus. Ripper, Oilcan, Speedbump, and Buzzard you go right and check that tower. Deadman, Roadkill, Maggott, and Wrench, we go up the middle. Stay low, move fast, and kill anything that moves.” 

A sudden sharp pain on my right cheek, the feeling of liquid running back to my ear—nice juicy bug; must have been a big one. “I hate it when that happens,” I muttered trying to wipe away the remains and getting my fingers all bug-gut sticky in the process.

I saw their brake lights come on about five hundred meters ahead and figured they were coming to a stop. All spread out the way they were I knew they were forming a skirmish line. I went on to get a little closer then shut off my lights and motor; coasting until I stopped. I pulled the Greener out of my saddlebag, having picked it up before leaving Mom’s, and filled my coat pockets with 10 ga. double-oughts—pity the guy that takes a blast from this hog.

I headed up the road on foot keeping to cover as much as possible since I sure didn’t want to catch a bullet from friendly fire. All of a sudden, the whole night sky lit up followed by booms like jets breaking the sound barrier. I realized they were flash-bangs after a second and got down behind a mound of earth to protect my night vision.

I decided to stay put, as the area around the tower and the bus lit up like a Pink Floyd Laser show with green and red tracers. The cave continued to expel grenades and small arms fire convincing the bad guys that any designs they had on the occupants was overly optimistic. I hated sitting there, but the Greener was no good for more than about thirty meters and my .45 wasn’t much better for accuracy beyond forty meters. All the targets were still at least a hundred meters away and the air was full of the angry buzz of stray rounds. All I could do is wait and watch.

After maybe five minutes of steady fighting, which seemed much longer, everything went quiet. Not just quiet but the total absence of sound that you can only find in the desert. Even the insects that provided the usual night music had been impressed into silence by the firefight.

Jason’s voice boomed out breaking the stillness, “Give it up Meronek, you are outnumbered, and there is no way out for you.”

It seemed like a good time for me to let them know I was here too so I shouted, “You’re surrounded Meronek, you got nowhere to go.” I hoped that Jason would be able to hear me after all that noise.

I heard the sound of running footsteps coming my way and waited until they were right on top of me. I popped up pointing the Greener and shouted, “Freeze scumbag,” at the same time. I guess he was just stupid because he began shooting. Little starbursts flashing out of the suppressor gave away his position as he ran toward me.

The Greener split the night with a roar as both hammers fell, spitting out a total of thirty-four, .38 caliber balls, which carved their way through their victim, stopping him in his tracks by ripping off his right leg and shredding his right arm into a pulp. He hit the ground face first still running and flopped around like a fish in the bottom of a boat. By the time I had reloaded, he was dancing with the Devil in Hell.

The rest of Meronek’s gang made their way back to their bikes and came barreling toward me. I popped up as they came abreast and let go the Greener again. One rider exploded in a cloud of red mist, his bike going on without him for fifty meters or so.

Another left the road and crashed into a large Prickly Pear patch with screams of pain and the engine roaring at full throttle until it flooded out.

I walked over while reloading to have a look at the remains. The sun was just starting to brighten the horizon, giving off enough light to make out my victims. The first was nearly blown in half; gutted by the buckshot with only his spine to hold him together.

By some twist of fate, he was still alive, his hands clawing at the air. I knelt down beside him and asked his name.

Through the gasping sounds as he tried to suck air with a torn diaphragm, I heard him say, “Jimmy Townsend” and “F—you,” as his dieing words. Remembering the list of characters Dakota had produced, I crossed off ‘Buzzard’, and moved on to the other guy. He lay in the Prickly Pear like some kind of oversize voodoo doll whimpering from the pain and begging for help.

“Looks bad dude,” I said holding the Greener on him and checking for weapons.

“What’s your name?”

“Eat shit and die asshole,” was his irreverent reply.

There was a strong smell of gasoline from the punctured gas tank of the bike, which was lying across his left leg. I stepped around him and prodded the bike with my foot causing more gas to run out.

“Be a shame if this thing was to catch fire,” I said, as I reached into my pocket pulling out a pack of matches to play with them in my left hand. “’Specially with your bike on top of you and all. One more time knothead,” I said as I peeled off a single match and prepared to strike it. “Your name.”

Fear was in his eyes, but he still thought I was bluffing, “You’re a cop man, you can’t do that, I got rights,” he whined.

“Wrong on two counts punk. I ain’t a cop and you gave up your rights at the Iron Horse last night.” I struck the match against the striker just lightly enough to cause a spark but not enough to light it.

“Okay man,” he shouted. “You’ll blow us both up. Are you crazy?”

“No,” I returned. “Just pissed off enough to light this hog up with you under it.”

“Okay man, names Speedbump.”

“Roger Moor?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s my name. Get me outta here man, these cactus spines are killing me.”

“What good are you Speedbump?” I asked fishing for information. “What can you tell me about Meronek that would convince me to keep your sorry ass alive?”

 Handlebar’s world exploded in white light and a wave of pressure that knocked him backward on his butt. There was a howling in his head and giant red balloons everywhere he looked that moved with his eyes. He felt as helpless as a newborn baby, not knowing which way to move. So he lay where he fell, feeling a warm wetness spreading through his crotch and smelling feces from somewhere. ‘Probably one of those dummies with me,’ he thought, it never occurring to him that he would load his own pants.

As his sight slowly returned, he could see the arcs of tracers passing over him, and felt wonder at the magic lights dancing before his eyes, until it finally came to him what they were. His Lt., Deadman, grabbed him by the collar and shouted in his ear to get under cover. They both crawled behind some rocks and made themselves as small as they could.

Screaming profanities, Handlebar began firing his AK in the direction of the cave until he emptied the clip in one wasteful burst. Fumbling for the clip release, he finally managed to get the empty out just as the area around him and Deadman exploded with return fire from the tower. Tracers bounced around them like an orgy of drunken fireflies and Deadman screamed at him to stop drawing fire.

Those shooting at them found new targets, allowing them time to skittle back toward the bikes and better cover. Firing up his machine, gunning the motor as a way to recall the group, but not waiting for the others, he launched himself down the road with Deadman following and the rest not far behind.

As he rolled past my position, he heard the Greener go off, and felt a sharp pain in his right butt cheek that nearly knocked him off the bike. Looking in his mirrors, he saw two drop out leaving only five lights following him now. He screamed out his rage and anger loud enough for the others to hear over their motors as they rolled into the rising sun, leaving their dead behind like so much garbage after a rock concert.  Looking out from the mouth of the cave Jason saw Handlebar and his minions spread out before him. He let them get to within eighty meters before tossing out three flash-bangs and opening up with the AR-15’s. With all the excitement it was a wonder there were not more casualties on both sides. The tower and the bus both opened up, seeding the dry Nevada night with flowers of red and green. The occasional blossom of orange from a frag or white from a flash-bang, the earth shaking booms of H.E., and over all; the cloying odor of cordite mixed with fear and blood.

There was sporadic fire being returned, but it was obvious that the Pagans were outgunned and this firefight was not going to last long. The shooting came to a stop as everyone took a break looking for targets.

A sudden burst of fire from down in front of the cave chopped up the hillside doing no real damage, but was returned by the guys in the tower a hundred fold. That seemed to take the fight out of them as they broke and ran for their bikes.

In the distance, the familiar bark of the Greener told Jason that Tom was settling the score with someone. Then the roar of the bikes leaving and one more shout from the Greener announced another Pagan dispatched to his master. That would bring the score to roughly six Pagans down.

It was time to check for casualties and assess the body count on both sides.

Looking first to those who were with him he asked, “Dakota, John, you okay?”

“I’m okay,” from Dakota, although sounding on the edge a bit.

“Think I may have been grazed by one Jason,” from John. “Right across the

cheek, burns like Hades bro.”

“Doesn’t look too bad,” Jason comforted. “Might even leave a little scar. I hear the chicks love that.”

“Yeah, too bad I’m already married. Hope the wife don’t mind.”

Dakota was moving at once for the med kit and tending to John while Jason left to check on the others. “In the tower, report,” he shouted.

He heard three okays from the tower and two more from the bus. One minor wound was pretty good for all the shooting that had gone down. “Fan out and have a look for any wounded. Report back as soon as you have something. Be careful, Tom’s out there somewhere.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he saw Tom coming up the road with somebody in front of him. “Good,” he said to himself. “At least one prisoner and maybe some answers.” 

CHAPTER 14 “Please man, just soot me. I can’t take no more,” whined Speedbump.

“Keep moving dirtbag, you ain’t hurt that bad,” I answered. We were coming up to the cave entrance as Jason was coming out.

“Eh-Yat-Tah-Hey little brother,” he called, “What have you brought us?”

“I found a dog in a cactus patch big brother. Got any pliers?”

“What for? They will fall out on their own in a week or two.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think I can put up with the whining that long, be better to shoot him I think.”

“Let’s see what he knows first, we can always shoot him later. Plenty space out here to bury him; looks like we got six to bury anyway. That .50 sure makes a mess out of a man, ya know.”

“Yeah, don’t much matter where you hit him either, almost always fatal.”

“At least we can let him put some names to what’s left,” said Jason.

“Get him up here and let me have a look at him,” shouted Dakota from inside the cave. “Looks like John is going to live, his wound was no fun at all.” She came walking out with some twelve-inch pliers and a hacksaw in her hands, along with a most evil grin on her lovely face.

“Move it knothead,” I said, giving him a boot to help him along.

“Ahh,” a lovely cry of pain. “Please man that hurts!”

“Do try to be gentle with him Dakota,” I said with a laugh.

Jason and I went out in an A.T.V. that had a trailer and picked up the bodies. We got them laid out and waited patiently for Dakota to finish so we could get some ID’s on the stiffs. Some were so mangled that not even their mother’s would recognize them.

“Give us some names punk,” Jason ordered after Dakota waved us into the cave.

“Tell us who your friends are.”

“No way man, I ain’t telling you pigs nothing more,” he said looking nervously at me.

“Sound familiar big brother?” I asked. “Lemme get another flare out and you make our guest comfortable.”

“Wait, what are you talking about? What flare? What do you need a flare for?” 

The results of our interrogation were predictable. Six names were crossed off the list of Handlebar’s minions: Cracker, Jinks, Roady, Ripper, the Satans Slaves enforcer, Oilcan, and Wrench. At this rate, Meronek was not going to be able to carry out his plan for Area 51 anytime soon.

He would have to find replacements before going ahead and according to Speedbump, Meronek was making a lot of promises to some of the local gangs: money, dope, and guns for anyone who would ride with him, but still no info on who was backing him or who the mysterious She was. We did have the location of his hideout though and everyone was preparing to go there as soon as the bodies were taken care of.

I walked over to Jason and called the others together as well. “Anyone willing to bet he’ll still be there?” I asked. “Chances are we won’t find anything but empty beer cans and cigarette butts. So I suggest we split up, half of go to the hideout and see what we can find, the others question the local clubs.”

“Good idea Tom,” said David. “I’ve got some sources on the street I can check.”

“Me too,” added Bones. “Besides, I gotta check in before the club starts missing me.”

“Right Bones,” I said, “and thanks for your help. Keep us posted, okay?”  Handlebar didn’t bother with going to the hideout in Glendale, figuring correctly, that the God-squad would sweat the location out of one of his fallen comrades. Trust was for suckers and he was no sucker. He stopped only long enough to pick up the women and the supplies he had left there, then headed for a backup location only he knew about.

The pain in his right leg was getting real bad and the whiskey he was downing for the pain was making it hard to drive, or even see the road for that matter.

They were about five klick’s from their new hidey-hole when a trooper pulled out to follow them. He did not know if a B.O.L.O. (Be On The Look Out) had been sent out or if the Pig was just hoping to get lucky by harassing him, but after about a klick the gumballs went on and he knew he would have to pull over or risk him calling for backup.

He knew he could not outrun them, especially with the old Jeep carrying their supplies and ol’ ladies. He gave a signal to Deadman as he came to a stop at a pullout with a scenic overlook.

As the trooper got out of his cruiser, Deadman pulled out a sawed off, let him have it with both barrels and no warning. Maggott tossed a lit Molotov on the unit and everybody burned off without looking back.

Very neat he thought, all done in under sixty seconds, no witnesses, and no way to recover the video from the Pig’s unit. What a crew he had, too bad he had lost so many back at the canyon. He would have to settle-up with that bitch Shiloh for that one after he took care of his leg. Stoneface had some shrapnel in his shoulder and back from a grenade to take care of as well.

That had been a bad scene. She had told him the battle would be his, so what went wrong? Could he have a snitch in the group? The guys had been riding with him for several years and he felt he could trust them to keep their mouths shut, but you could never be a hundred percent sure of anything. Everybody but Speedbump was accounted for and he saw him get blasted by Harper with that damn Greener. That left the women and he had never trusted bitches. That was one thing his mother had taught him—the hard way.

They rode down a side road into a valley following the old wagon tracks and there, hidden by shadows, was the opening to an old silver mine. “Maggott, go back and cover our tracks, those Pigs’ll be looking for us real quick.”

“Sure Handlebar, but the drag behind the Jeep looks like it did a pretty good job.”

“Stay back there by that old shack and keep watch. You see anybody coming, you call me on the cell.”

Inside the old mineshaft, they pulled out some camo netting to cover the bikes; it wasn’t great, but good enough for a flyover. 

CHAPTER 15 “Hey Charlie, Tom here…Yeah, Tom Harper, your old Gunny Sergeant. Hey, look partner, I need ya to cover my back…Think you could reach Bill Travers and Dick Rogers? Okay, call me back at this number as soon as you can, thanks bro.” I put down the phone and turned back to the others. “Charley, Dick, and Bill were some of the best of my squad back in Iraq, all Christians too.”

We settled back into a booth at Mom’s waiting for our food. Jason was in the kitchen doing the cooking and sitting next to me was Dakota, James, and John, the rest were out working their sources for any clues they could turn up, or were trying to get some rest and clean clothes after the firefight. I knew I needed to. It felt like it had been a week since I had a bath and a good nights sleep and no way of knowing if I ever would again. 

“Tom, Tom,” a voice was calling my name from somewhere, distracting me from something that was terribly important. I tried to answer, but there was no sound—to open my eyes—but they would not. I screamed in my fear, reached out for purchase, and finally called out for the LORD. Light—faces around me that I knew—familiar sounds. “Tom, you okay little brother?” The face of Jason moved in front of me. “You had us scared man. You just fell out face first in your soup.”

“Come with me Tom,” Dakota directed. “Time for a little nap. You can sleep in the back room.”

I started to protest, but the soup dripping down my face cinched the argument. I went along without any further protest. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow  A blue lake stretched away over the horizon, fluffy white clouds forming vaguely familiar faces, soft green grass under me, and a gentle breeze smelling faintly of pine and honeysuckle.

“Nice place huh, Nephew?”

I turned to see Bob seated next to me on the grass. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know Tom, It’s your dream.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “What’s going on Bob? Why am I important in all this?”

“Because you have found favor in the eyes of the LORD Tom. There does not have to be any other reason. The fact is, you have been chosen, as I was chosen, and it is an honor. He does not do this for everyone you know.”

I looked back to the lake, to the clouds in the sky once again forming a face, an old man with long white hair. I looked to Bob again, but he was gone, and in his place, a single rose. A voice from above? Or maybe just thunder, “Follow Me.”  “You ever notice how snitches rhymes with bitches?” mused Handlebar aloud. He was pretty stoned on a mixture of cheap whiskey, Oxycontin, and several joints of good weed. He was looking around at the ladies and trying not to scream as Roadkill, the official ex-military medic and enforcer, dug around in his thigh looking for the hunk of buckshot that was embedded there.

“I know it’s one of you sluts,” he slurred through clenched teeth. “I can smell it on ya.”

Bittytitty slinked over to him bending down and wiping his face with a wet towel.

“Come on baby,” she cooed in his ear. “You know I wouldn’t do that. I love you baby. I would do anything for you. It might be Shiloh baby. You know I have never trusted her.”

Handlebar put his hand in her face and shoved her onto her backside. “Get away from me bitch,” he shouted as he fumbled for his gun, but Deadman had taken it knowing

how Meronek’s temper flashed when he was trashed.

“I’ll kill you, you lying bitch. I’ll kill all of ya.”

The sudden movement sent a wave of pain through the psycho’s body that hit his brain like a runaway freight train, sending him into unconsciousness.

“Lucky for you Bitty,” said Deadman. “You better make yourself scarce before he comes to. He might just kill you for this. You getting kind’ a wore out anyway.”

She knew it was true, but where could she go? She couldn’t go to prison, not with her expensive tastes in chemicals. The D.T.’s just weren’t for her. She withdrew to a dank corner near the exit of the mine and started making her plans.

Handlebar dreamed again of his mother calling the police and turning him in. He had killed the neighbor’s Doberman for taking a crap in their yard and soiling his brand new Converse sneakers in it. He had called the dog over using some steak from the ‘fridge and cut its throat with his switchblade. It had cost him one year in the C.Y.A. (California Youth Authority) and he was still mad about it. He had been only ten and swore that someday, she would taste steel too. 